


It's A Handheld Disaster

by neck_mole



Series: Gastrell-verse [1]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bittersweet Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Online Friendship, POV Alternating, POV Simon, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Semi-Text Fic, Slow Burn, Teen Angst, Texting, Tumblr, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-11-28 23:35:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18215168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neck_mole/pseuds/neck_mole
Summary: Whoever says that having a flair for the dramatics is pointless has clearly never met me, because I wouldn’t quite call this masterpiece of an essay “pointless”. In fact, I should send it to academics. Rename it “A Study In Multi-Dimensional Characters and their Associated Generalized Personality Traits”. I’ll be hailed as a genius, as I deserve to be.-Teenage life is hard enough, but with the added weight of their lives, both Simon and Baz thrive online in a fandom for the British crime show, Gastrell, about the genius Huxley and his "flatmate" Sam. Through Tumblr, they find each other, and sink into something more than just being mutuals.





	1. Don't @ Me

**Author's Note:**

> hhohohohoho boy it's been a while since my last fic, and i apologize for that, but! here it is! a fic alright!
> 
> gotta let this be known that this is shorter than my other multi-chaptered fics (it's under 20k), but i hope you like it nonetheless!

**BAZ**

 

Morning routines are the most menial shit in the realm of existence of arbitrary tasks.

 

Everyone seems to have them, yet nobody really has a set one. For example, my step-mum has a long, seemingly pointless hour of simply facial cleansers, serums, and hair products. When I’d asked her years ago why she does it all, she shook her head and said “You’ll never be an aging woman, Basilton.”

 

I couldn’t quite argue with that.

 

Regardless, it’s a part of life. The routines. Wake up, morning routine, morning activity, eat, afternoon activity, usually afternoon snack, evening activity, dinner, night-time activity, sleep.

 

A boring, underwhelming cycle of the day.

 

Although, I suppose it’s shittier for me, since the homeschooling doesn’t give me a chance to do much besides sit and read. Of course, I have my car and I can drive off to whatever. Hell, father even suggested I get a job to occupy myself, but I don’t quite see the point given how much money we have (and the risk factors with moving around so frequently).

 

So, here I am. Finishing my classes in a matter of months, then having an entire year of pointless bullshit.

 

Needless to say, my entire day’s routine isn’t the most thrilling. Wake up at 10 on a good day, check social media and emails, then just lay here until I can’t wait to piss. Piss. Go to eat breakfast and get greeted by screaming children and my poor step-mum trying to wrangle them in. Go upstairs, go back online, see whatever’s on my dash, reblog some shit, then try to do something vaguely productive. Check Archive, check email again. Nothing’s on the emails, ever. Text Dev and Niall, who get awfully pissed since they  _ are _ in school. Get more food. Eat. Bring tea upstairs, despite the disdained look from our maid (who hates collecting my piles of mugs). Write for a couple hours. Take an afternoon nap, if I please. Wake up and sit there (again). Maybe lonely wank. Go back to the bathroom, stare at myself in the mirror for a good few minutes. Sit on the toilet for half an hour for no reason besides the fact that my phone seems more interesting while sitting  _ there _ as compared to sitting in bed. Sit then on the bathroom floor doing the same thing. Go back to my bed, listen to music on my phone and work on my laptop. Write, maybe scroll. Get dinner brought to me as they tut that I should be more active. Eat. Go downstairs for an evening workout (they’re right, I shouldn’t confine myself to my bed). Come back, do exactly what I do for half the day until I pass out somewhere around 3 am. Repeat.

 

Dream life for an 17 year old. Social life of a god.

 

Somewhat.

 

It’s shit to say (and sort of embarrassing to share) that there’s sort of a social media presence around me. Not quite the Instagram model bullshit, but based around fan life.

 

Yes, it’s a laughing stock. That’s where my popularity lies--a mixed grab-bag of various ages gathering around various platforms to enthuse about certain topics. And I’m somehow lucky enough to have the slightest bit of popularity here.

 

As in, a large following. A large, somehow active following.

 

It isn’t exactly thrilling as one would like to think. Sure, it’s fun to see a scattered group of regulars pop up, and I have my mutuals, but it’s a sad existence to sit around and make various shitposts with nothing better to occupy my mind. Or, at least, that’s what Dev and Niall tell me.

 

All in all, I blame Fiona. She’s the one who got me into the show, saying she thought the character was a bit like me. After I saw it, I found the three connections she’d grasped at.

 

Gay, dark-haired, and violinist.

 

As if that’s a rarity.

 

Yet, surely enough, I did love it. The cinematography, the characters, the storyline. It was intriguing--captivating.

 

It doesn’t hurt that the online community was still on the smaller side when I first got there. The show was only a season in when I made my blog, and I’ve stuck through all this bullshit to get me here. One of the regulars. Reposted everywhere, uncredited usually. Big fics, large interactions. Shitposts with thousands upon thousands of notes. I’m recognizable; a suggested name.

 

Don’t get me wrong, the attention is spectacular. I love interacting with people beyond this depressing household, and they’re usually fairly nice (usually) (except those ravenous for an argument). It’s just awkward to share at times when people ask why your mobile’s got 99+ symbols next to the apps and you just shrug and say “I’m shit at checking it” to avoid the conversation because most people see it as childish.

 

It’s a shame, really. Especially since I feel emotionally attached to these goddamn fictional fuckers.

 

I suppose that’s what makes it all the more personal, then. Even the shitposts mean something to me.

 

Which is what makes this is a long, winded way of saying fuck whoever’s arguing with me about whether or not Huxley is a fucking Ravenclaw. (He is. Hands down.) How’d I get here, staring at my mobile in disbelief at a brief back and forth post turned fight? Because it feels like a reasonable question to wonder.

 

I got here because, as almost all mornings, I woke up, opened my phone, read my notifs, then sat here, thinking of something. Anything. Then, in a tired haze, typed out a single text post on tumblr.

 

**huxley gastrell is a ravenclaw send tweet**

 

Following so, I went about my typical morning. Of course. Then-- _ then _ \--I check my phone as I’m going downstairs and I see it. I see the “@bi-sammy mentioned you in a post!” notif, then read the God-forsaken reblog.

 

_ @gaystrell op do you take criticism on your posts? _

 

I frowned at my phone, typing out a quick response before tucking it back into my pocket.

 

**@bi-sammy no.**

 

What I hadn’t anticipated, though, was the reply I’d open up to soon after I’d started poking at my morning meal.

 

_ @gaystrell well too bad bc ur WRONG and ur opinions are UGLY _

 

_ #he’s clearly a slytherin this is slytherin oppression #don’t tell me he and bryonie aren’t from a slytherin family _

 

Now I sit, staring and completely awestruck at such a post. Now, I won’t deny Bryonie Gastrell is definitely, in all possible ways, a Slytherin. Cunning and ambitious as fuck, as any political spy may be, but fuck  _ anyone _ who tries to dismiss Huxley’s clear Ravenclaw leanings.

 

It takes me a moment to fully process, mouth robotically chewing my eggs as I contemplate my answer.

 

**@bi-sammy there is absolutely no proof of huxley being a slytherin and more than enough support towards him being a ravenclaw. get your clueless negativity off my blog, you utter tit.**

 

With that, I settle my phone face down onto my table and try to enjoy my lovely plate of scrambled eggs, barely ignoring the boiling of my blood.

 

**SIMON**

 

My phone lights up with the new notification, dragging my attention away from my laptop as the words slide down onto the screen. “@gaystrell mentioned you in a post!” I hate to admit that I get a little pattering in my heart, urging my hand out to grasp the mobile as I pause the Youtube video currently playing. As I read his words, I slowly blink out of my excitement.

 

Tit. He called me a bloody tit.

 

Of course this fucking wanker called me a tit.

 

He must think that since he’s this big bad blogger, he can call me a tit right out in the open. (Although, he  _ is _ talking to me, so that’s a plus) (No! No no no, bad validation, Simon. Bad). What, with his thousands of followers and fans of his own, he thinks he can try to say shit out in the open?

 

Fuck it. He’s either getting a DM or a bloody fist fight from me. I’ll take a train to wherever the fuck he lives (which is somewhere in England, since that’s what his bio says) (and his aunt lives in London, since he’s posted about visiting her) (I really do wonder where he’s from and how close he might be--what if I run into him one day?) (No wait fuck I don’t want that anymore).

 

Clicking on his blog, the little person drop down gives me the option of a message. I barely think as I type it out, vision going spotty from the adrenaline of the twinging anger.

 

_ bi-sammy: i swear to god there was no point to the battle of hogwarts if you’re just going to go around and absolutely slander the slytherin name and dare say that huxley is not one of them and, rather, is a ravenclaw _

 

At first, I grin at it, watching my lone message appear into the empty chat. It’s so freeing--so powerful to send it. I pride myself, in the moment, for this solid move of communication. Of course I’m fucking proud. I messaged the arse myself and gave him a space to fight.

 

Maybe Penny’s right, I  _ should _ dial down the confrontation, but it’s just the internet. Nothing important happens through a stupid little argument over Huxley’s true Hogwarts house (although, I’m sure I know I’m right in my heart), but it is a bit of fun to fuck around with someone. It’s a distraction. And that’s why I’m here, afterall. To have a distraction.

 

Penny thinks it’s a bit silly, but she doesn’t really complain. All she’s ever said was  “I thought we left fandom stuff behind us when we were 14.” She said it over lunch, watching me scroll through my at-the-time new tumblr.

 

It’s funny, I thought I did leave it behind when I was younger. It seemed unneeded as life shifted. I’d just found a stable foster home, with someone who was going to keep me for a while. I found Penny a couple months before I deactivated my old account. I was happy; we were free. I didn’t need a venting place.

 

Shits been sort of hitting the fan recently, though. No uni plans, David’s been getting more controlling, and of course, Agatha dumping me. It all crashed on top of me a few months ago, and somehow, the only place that I could find healthy coping was online. So, I started fresh. Made a blog and settled in. It’s not big, but I’ve had a few posts get noticed. I have a good few hundred followers, and one nice anon who asks me how I am every few weeks. It’s not a lot, but it’s comforting.

 

I feel at home here, even with a little discourse.

 

Well, only when the discourse is answered. Which, in this situation, I don’t know if it will be, given it’s been over an hour now and Baz hasn’t answered.

 

If that’s even his name.

 

It’s what his bio says, at least.

 

**baz. 17. cisguy (he/him). gay. don’t interact if you think huxley is remotely straight.**

 

I’ve wondered for a while what Baz stands for. He refuses to answer it in asks; he always says it’s too personal. He’s sort of odd like that--never posts pictures of anything that could be linked back. Seems sort of creepy, but then again, a  _ lot _ of people follow him. It’s reasonable to want space.

 

Maybe that’s why he’s not answering. He probably wants space of some sort, but it’d be at least decent to answer someone who tried to have a discussion (that’s at least what I’m calling that message I sent--a discussion starter).

 

I frown at my phone, keeping it on silent as I slide it into my front pocket and settle into my seat in maths. I’ll say it--I sulk in class, a little bitter that I don’t have his attention (despite the fact that he seems like he’s  _ always _ active online, which seems odd). Eventually, I exhale and try to let it slip away. There went my one interaction with him. My few seconds of the weirdest fucking bliss online, gone.

 

Then, it happens. As the class is ending, I pull out my screen just enough to see and there it is. A clear notification telling me he’d answered. Oddly enough, it’s just him sending me a link to a Google Doc.

 

Weird.

 

I ignore it for the moment being, letting myself ride the wave of relaxation that I actually got a reply. It passes my mind until I’m sitting in the back of Agatha’s car, listening to Penny and Aggie in the front talking about whatever’s on their mind. The rides are sort of awkward as of recently. At least Agatha agreed to drive me home (it’s a good 45 minute walk, if not) after some convincing from Penny, but her and I don’t really chat. It’s just the two of them.

 

Given that time, I have a chance to pull out my mobile and thumb through what was sent.

 

**gaystrell:** [ **https://docs.google.com/document/d/175qFASmqD7hey8lE0eoE-6VhhFYE9DP6bpnI32Aay98/edit?usp=sharing** ](https://docs.google.com/document/d/175qFASmqD7hey8lE0eoE-6VhhFYE9DP6bpnI32Aay98/edit?usp=sharing)

 

I click on it, not expecting that much (or, really, not expecting anything at all). Yet, the second it pops up and loads, my jaw drops. 

 

“Jesus fuck,” I say aloud, scrolling through it. Penny turns her head, frowning as I stay locked on my screen.

 

“What? What’s wrong?”

 

“No--no nothing,” I say, waving a hand. “It’s nothing.”

 

“It’s got to be something for that reaction,” she says, keeping turned in her seat as she eyes me up. “Just tell us, Si.”

 

“I mean it when I say it’s nothing.” My voice gets quieter as I shift, reading the title. “It’s just fandom stuff. It’s really nothing.”

 

I hear her disgruntled huff as she turns back, mumbling something about me reacting too dramatically to this. “It isn’t even real.” It’s said under her breath, yet it still rings clear in my ears.

 

It isn’t really fake, either.

 

Hell, this is six pages of real. “Why Huxley Gastrell is, Without a Doubt, a Ravenclaw”. Shared by Basilton Pitch (is that his actual  _ name?! _ ). Fucking hell, it’s detailed to no ends. You’d think, with this much writing, there’d be pages of pointless filler where he’d just type “im gay hi huxley is also a gay we’re all gay here aren’t we”, but  _ no _ . It’s full, grammatically correct sentences detailing his points.

 

It’s a bit much to read in the car, so I settle my mobile face down onto the seat as I’m left reeling. That… was a bit more than I’d expected.

 

Shit, did he write that for  _ me? _

 

This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

 

**BAZ**

 

Whoever says that having a flair for the dramatics is pointless has clearly never met me, because I wouldn’t quite call this masterpiece of an essay “pointless”. In fact, I should send it to academics. Rename it “A Study In Multi-Dimensional Characters and their Associated Generalized Personality Traits”. I’ll be hailed as a genius, as I deserve to be.

 

I crack my knuckles, and see the little person pop up.

 

Surely enough, it’s @bi-sammy’s name that he has listed online, Simon. It’s curious, he has his last name listed as “Snow”. Although, the smallest part of me believes it’s a pseudonym. Given our interactions, I doubt he’s clever enough to think of a solid pseudonym. And, even at that, why pick  _ Snow _ ?

 

Either way, it’s surprisingly endearing. Simon Snow. Sounds sweet. Sounds innocent.

 

I watch his cursor turn on, then his icon goes grey after a few moments. My heart starts to trip, making my cheeks begin to flush. Is… he ignoring this?

 

No. He can’t be. I put in hard work and dedication into this work, and I deserve the respect I’d sent into it. Fucking hell, three fully developed points (his devotion to intellectual work, his effort to step out of public light for Sam’s sake, and his overall lack of ambition for moving forward). I clearly set it out, and ended it properly; I’d proven that Huxley is a Ravenclaw. Case and point, opinion made, the end.

 

And, here I sit, watching him have the audacity to open it up then close it back. That was my hard work put in there, and he closes it? Who in the name of all that is sacred thinks he’s that above other people to the point where he just  _ ignores _ \--

 

Oh. He’s back on. Nevermind.

 

He’s… probably a school student. It’s roughly the time that most classes end, I suppose.

 

I make a mental apology to him, despite having never ranted directly to him in the first place.

 

He stays active for a good bit; long enough to show he’s reading. I assume that he’d just close off and message me, but after minutes, I notice a little highlighted comment pop up on the last sentence.

 

**_Simon Snow_ ** _ i………. owe you every single possible apology _

Each word makes me grin like I haven’t in a while. A wide, cheek-creasing grin. There’s something so sweet to that--so personal. It feels like a note passed to me in a classroom under the tables. Like a cute “Blink if you like me”, although I doubt he has quite an intention.

 

Nevertheless, it warms my chest, sending my head back as I smile. I’m not sure whether or not it’s the satisfaction of winning, or his words, but I laugh outwardly into the room. It stays with me, reverberating onto my skin and my throat.

 

I look back at the comment, then leave it untouched. If he won’t remove it, then I won’t either.

 

With a glance at our personal messages tab, I figure that’s that. Even field, no more argument. No more interaction. It’s a bit of a shame, given the effort I’d just extorted for his sake, that he hasn’t answered in our chat.

 

While I’m disappointed to close off the document, I smile at it one last time. Sometimes I have to move on from random people, especially when they come on a bit strong.

 

Except, I find, moments later that I’m wrong about one thing--the moving on. He didn’t just stop his interaction, but instead made a public post.

 

“@bi-sammy mentioned you in a post!”

 

This time, I really laugh. A full bellied, hand-covering-mouth laugh.

 

_ i guess i have to suck @gaystrell's cock now because i was wrong and the bloody arse was right. huxley is a ravenclaw. _

 

_ #fuck me i guess _

 

I take a minute, rereading over his words a few times before typing a simple answer with my reblog.

 

**i’m available anytime behind a mcdonald’s parking lot**


	2. No Wait Unblock Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I guess I somewhat crave this friendship. I’ll speak the truth to that and say yes, I smile when his memes pop up. They’re almost always fandom, and definitely made on Photoshop. This one, I see as I tap and let it load, is the crudely drawn Kirby graphic shoving burgers into his mouth, but over Kirby is photoshopped a picture of Huxley’s face and the burgers are Sam's ass.
> 
> -
> 
> Simon and Baz finally get to "mutuals" status.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers* let's see if i can keep up with a chapter a day

**BAZ**

 

For the third time today, I see a similar notification slide through my drop down.

 

_ bi-sammy sent you a picture _

 

Part of me initially wants to sigh, roll my eyes, and swipe it away, because apparently part of me wishes to be alone for the rest of my life. Thankfully, the reasonable, tiny sliver of my mind makes sure I don’t make such a mistake.

 

Given the situation, one would think we’d parted ways. He makes a post, we stop the argument, all is fair in fandom and war. Except, now I believe Snow has grown under an impression that after one exchange, it qualifies us for somewhat of a friendship, and therefore reason to send me  _ memes. _ Don’t get me wrong, memes are a fantastic waste of time and barely a waste of energy, but it’s strange that he’s not fucking off like most people.

 

Maybe I’m used to others being scared of me.

 

Maybe I’m used to others following my tactics of scaring them away.

 

Whatever I’ve done hasn’t worked, since this arse is immune to my attempts at coldness and mild animosity. I’m starting to suspect there’s something genuinely wrong with him, like he doesn’t get enough love and attention.

 

Guess that makes two of us.

 

I guess I somewhat crave this friendship. I’ll speak the truth to that and say yes, I smile when his memes pop up. They’re almost always fandom, and definitely made on Photoshop. This one, I see as I tap and let it load, is the crudely drawn Kirby graphic shoving burgers into his mouth, but over Kirby is photoshopped a picture of Huxley’s face and the burgers are Sam's ass.

 

It’s all poorly done and, sadly, extremely endearing.

 

My thumbs hover over my keyboard, cheeks creasing as I stare down at the picture. I lay back against my pillows, the curtains drawn and my hair pulled out of my face. It’s quite lonely; my life’s a sterile mixture of quarantined education and age old settled dust in my ancient room. It’s nice to have his somewhat obnoxious messages pop onto my screen, but it feels so odd. So foreign, and barely understood.

 

I want to understand.

 

**gaystrell: why are you still messaging me?**

 

I get an answer not even a minute later.

 

_ bi-sammy: do you want me to stop? _

 

I don’t even hesitate to send out a reply, feeling a steadily growing lump in my throat, choking me mindless.

 

**gaystrell: no.**

 

_ bi-sammy: then why did you ask? _

 

**gaystrell: i just**

 

**gaystrell: don’t get it**

 

_ bi-sammy: get what? _

 

**gaystrell: why you’d want to talk to me**

 

_ bi-sammy: because youre cool _

 

**gaystrell: vexing me won’t get you “street cred”, if that’s what you’re after**

 

_ bi-sammy: shit no wait that’s not what i meant _

 

_ bi-sammy: dont block me fukc wait _

 

_ bi-sammy: id just meant that you wrote all that shit and i thought it was really cool and _

 

_ bi-sammy: i dont know _

 

_ bi-sammy: i thought we could be friends since you did all that _

 

_ bi-sammy: ill stop if you want me to _

 

**gaystrell: calm down you’re clogging my notifs**

 

**gaystrell: do that again and i /will/ block you**

 

**gaystrell: but………. if you actually do want to be friends i suppose i’m willing to give forth a little attention**

 

_ bi-sammy: im osrry i dont speak posh cunt _

 

**gaystrell: too bad, blocked**

 

_ bi-sammy: no wait unblock me _

 

**gaystrell: fine last chance**

 

 _bi-sammy:_ _bitch_

 

**gaystrell: b l o c k e d**

 

_ bi-sammy: no but,,,,,,, i do want to be friends _

 

I’m smiling like a fucking loon, scrolling through our brief exchange. It’s strange. Most people aren’t upfront about wanting to talk, or wanting someone to talk with. Wanting a friend, even. I have the people follow me and ask me questions, and of that only a small handful of those who actually interact eith me (and even in that, we usually only speak to give each other a helping hand).

 

And despite that, here’s someone who wants to try.

 

I suck my lower lip into my mouth, trying to think of my course of actions.

 

There’s a simple one I can take now (and probably should’ve taken as an initiative). I click his icon, and click “Follow” on his page.

 

It doesn’t take very long before I get a notification come through, starting that he mentioned me in a post.

 

It isn’t very long, but it gets its point across in the best way possible. It’s just a mobile screenshot, reading “ **gaystrell** started following bi-sammy” with a quick caption.

 

_ god himself entered the groupchat. how do i block him? _

 

**SIMON**

 

I wonder what it’d be like to see me in the moment. It’s a real shame Penn wasn’t around to capture it, since I’m in the middle of French class, but I must’ve smiled so stupidly that it caught the attention of the professor. He gave me a stern look until I set down my mobile.

 

The moment he turned away, I opened it back up and grinned.

 

At first, I didn’t believe what I was seeing. Him. Following me.

 

Us. Mutuals.  _ Mutuals. _

 

Of course I had to screenshot and post as a brag (barely humble, more metaphorically sucking my own knob for all my followers to see). Nobody really cares, as expected.

 

Well, nobody except the single message from none other than Mr. Bitch.

 

**gaystrell: blocked. unfollowed. reported. waste of space.**

 

My smile creases back my cheeks as they flush pink. I send back a quick message before turning my mobile over, foot tapping double the speed of the analogue on the wall.

 

_ bi-sammy: ;) _

 

**BAZ**

 

He winked. Interesting.

 

I’m out of breath.

 

Fuck?

 

I lay my phone flat away from me, face down as I squint at my wall. I should respond in a composed fashion. I  _ have _ to be clever, and not one-upping him is never an option. After all, does this qualify as flirting? Friendly banter? What am I doing with this random fucking bloke that I don’t even have a face to put to?

 

He’s my age. Roughly. Yes?

 

I check his tumblr again, as if I hadn’t just read his bio earlier.

 

_ simon // he/him // 17 // hold my fucking hand (please) _

 

Maybe he’s just straight and I’m misreading it. Yes. Probably. Aren’t most people straight? Is that still a fact? (I highly doubt it, given how boring that must be.) But he winked at me. Somewhat prompted, I’ll give him that, but it was still a fucking wink.

 

I wink in texts to Dev and Niall too, though, but that’s different, isn’t it? I’d never snog either of them ( _ especially _ fucking Dev), but hey. If unfaced internet boy asked for a snog, would I?

 

I’m too wrapped up and starved for human interaction to properly deal with this.

 

**gaystrell: i will carry on with my threats, snow**

 

There it is. Perfectly biting, while not being entirely rejecting. Maybe I’m better at this than I thought.

 

Or, perhaps, I’m worse, because even an hour and a half after sending the text, he’s silent.

 

I remind myself every few minutes that he most likely attends an actual school and has classes, but it makes my chest ache in the most unfair way every time my mobile tempts me with an unrelated notification.

 

I work myself to the point of moping down in the kitchen, slumping against the fridge whilst watching Vera make tea. She’s relatively silent, knowing better than anybody to leave me to sulk.

 

“You’re a drama queen,” she tuts, looking over me. Granted, I dress like a slob and borderline haunt this godforsaken mansion, but I feel as though that makes me entitled to being the way I am.

 

“I’m  _ lonely _ ,” I sigh, head resting against the fridge. It hums beside me, the chromed metal cooling my cheek. “Am I not granted a dramatic spell every now and then?”

 

“Not unprovoked.”

 

I set a hand against the handle, then let it drop. I’m not hungry. “What if it was provoked?”

 

“Is it?”

 

Instinctively, I pull out my phone and click it on. Nothing. “Perhaps.”

 

Vera frowns at me, walking over and setting a hand on my arm. “What’s wrong? Are you feeling okay?”

 

My eyes slowly roll as I push myself off the appliance, standing upright. “Physically, yes. Don’t fuss. It’s just… online shit.”

 

“You spend too much time on the phone,” she sighs, letting go and going back to the tea as she fixes me a mug. “Don’t you think you’d be happier to disconnect from social media for a day or two? Go on a walk, see nature?”

 

I snort, looking outside. “And what? Trip and bust open my knee? That’d wind me back up in care for at least a few days.”

 

“You act like you’re made of paper and glass.” She offers over my mug, letting my fingers wind around the handle before she shakes her head.

 

“I might as well be,” I huff down before thanking her and blowing on my tea.

 

Once I leave back up to my room, I realise it's somehow more depressing in here over the kitchen with Vera’s disapproval of technology rantings. At least  _ she’s _ some sort of company.

 

As I’m sipping my tea, I go back to scrolling on my laptop as a notif pops up, jarring me with the sound but letting me breathe again.

 

_ bi-sammy: why do you know my last name smh _

 

I exhale slowly, smiling to myself.

 

**gaystrell: you commented on my google doc, you idiot**


	3. Scales, Fins, and other Fishy Daydreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But, at least, I own my mobile.
> 
> Every summer job, mixed with odds and ends shit and whatever I can do for my bill. It’s all mine, and Davy can’t fucking touch it.
> 
> Maybe that’s why, when I feel it buzz against my chest, it makes me feel more alive. It’s a reminder of all that work just to be able to talk to someone freely.
> 
> -
> 
> Baz takes Simon's shitpost text a step further, and the outcome ends up spreading a few rumors.

**SIMON**

 

_ bi-sammy: sammy would still fuck huxley if he looked like the fish from shape of water _

 

I grin smugly at my screen, sitting in a dark room with nothing shining but my mobile. The shutters stay shut, and the light from the bottom of the doorway barely filters into the room. It’s just me, this scratchy blanket, and Baz, somewhere else in England on another screen. I absolutely adore that.

 

**gaystrell: why would you say something so controversial yet so brave.jpg**

 

Sometimes, I catch myself smiling. Other times, I elect to ignore how real it feels. It’s weird, given that it feels like I’m just chatting with someone who I see everyday. The casualness of this reminds me of texting Penny in the afternoon on a Thursday.

 

Except, given the current time, it could be interpreted as more intimate than that of a friend’s text.

 

8am on a Saturday is  _ usually _ a time reserved for comfort. For staying warm with someone you care about. Instead, I’m just messaging Baz.

 

_ bi-sammy: because im right _

 

_ bi-sammy: hear me out here ive got a brilliant idea _

 

**gaystrell: whoever taught you the definition of a brilliant idea was clearly misleading you**

 

_ bi-sammy: dont be an arse until youve heard it _

 

_ bi-sammy: wanker _

 

**gaystrell: you’re truly proving your point**

 

_ bi-sammy: ANYWAY _

 

_ bi-sammy: shape of water au _

 

_ bi-sammy: thats all _

 

**gaystrell: i’m appalled.**

 

**gaystrell: hold on.**

 

I don’t think much of it. Occasionally, he disappears for an hour to two. I don’t bother asking, assuming it’s none of my business, but I do tend to worry a bit. I hope he’s alright.

 

After clicking off my phone, my head settles against my pillow as my eyes fall shut.

 

There’s something about this. There’s something about him. It’s a bit hard to pinpoint what it is, but the overwhelming feeling of comfort I have in the notifications I get from him just answering my bullshit is incredibly welcomed. He’s semisweet. I don’t know why I didn’t see it earlier, but he’s a fantastically bitter person.

 

My head slowly turns over, eyes opening and straining in the darkness.

 

I hate my empty room.

 

I hate the absence of comfort--I hate the plainness of these walls.

 

I want to say I hate my foster dad, but I also feel like I’m not allowed to say that. Not because the system will take me again and throw me back (even though I could have left a year back, if I was still in it). Instead, I feel like I  _ shouldn’t _ hate him. Theoretically, I should be thankful for what I have. I’m not in a boy’s home, and I haven’t been since I was 11, but the remnants remain. The fights don’t go away, and neither do the weeks of starvation.

 

Still, I sort of despise living here under Davy.

 

That’s what he makes me call him. His name. His  _ nickname. _ Not dad; of course not dad. He’s had me in his care for roughly six years, but he’s still Davy to me.

 

Shitty fucking Davy, with his strict curfews and practically using me as a housemaid because he’s too cheap to care for himself.

 

Shitty fucking Davy, not letting me add anything to my room because the day I turn 18, I’m out of here until his next kid (and cheque, apparently) come in. Told me I’d wreck the walls and ruin his furniture if I did put anything on it, too.

 

So that’s what I’ve got. Blank walls, blank furniture, blank everything. It’s like a jail cell for a bedroom, and everything I’ve got to show for myself is in a backpack and two dresser drawers/

 

But, at least, I own my mobile.

 

Every summer job, mixed with odds and ends shit and whatever I can do for my bill. It’s all mine, and Davy can’t fucking touch it.

 

Maybe that’s why, when I feel it buzz against my chest, it makes me feel more alive. It’s a reminder of all that work just to be able to talk to someone freely.

 

Arguably, the best feeling in the goddamn world.

 

I grab it and flip it over. It’s just an email about uni.

 

Fuck.

 

I end up scrolling through tumblr for a little while, doing nothing but liking and reblogging a thing here or there. It takes a little while before a little drop down falls from the top of my screen.

 

**gaystrell:** [ **https://docs.google.com/document/d/1r7Wkwj7MSFk0--DgquHGhYVBbqneEYq0J01t0uMRmxA/edit?usp=sharing** ](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1r7Wkwj7MSFk0--DgquHGhYVBbqneEYq0J01t0uMRmxA/edit?usp=sharing)

 

**gaystrell: feel the need to apologize before you click the link, but then again, you asked for this hell**

 

When I click on it, it pulls up a doc titled just “crackfic”, and I’m floored with the first sentence alone.

 

_ “Fuck my fish ass harder, daddy.” _

 

My hand flies up, covering my mouth as I practically wheeze as quietly as possible. A few paragraphs in and I’m nearly crying into my palm, muffling my laughter as I read through pages upon pages of the most ridiculous fic I’ve ever laid my eyes upon.

 

I check the word count out of pure curiosity, and it somehow makes me laugh harder.

 

_ bi-sammy: holy fucking shit _

 

_ bi-sammy: i swear to god if you don’t post that i will _

 

**gaystrell: already in the process of making the archive post**

 

**gaystrell: i seriously believe you underestimate my sincere ability to be the biggest dick on the street**

 

_ bi-sammy: i dont know whether or not u meant that as ur literal dick or the big dick energy in making that a post but id probably agree with you in both _

 

_ bi-sammy: tag me in the post pls i want to be the first to reblog it _

 

**gaystrell: you’re a ridiculous, sad, little man**

 

**gaystrell: of course i’ll tag you**

 

Within minutes, it’s uploaded with the absolute worst slew of Archive tags attached to it, and as soon as he tags me in his post, I tap the notification.

 

**Scales, Fins, and other Fishy Daydreams**

 

**Word Count: 3,192**

 

**Summary: Fish!Huxley and Sam get it on Shape of Water style**

 

**@bi-sammy this is your fault (you're welcome)**

 

I immediately slam like and pull up reblog, rapidly typing out my response before posting.

 

_ absolute madman. cant believe youve done this. i trust you with my entire life. _

 

As usual, he's quick to reblog back.

 

**anything for the absolute pain in my life x**

 

Smiling shamelessly, I ride on the moment's high as our conversation stays out in the world. I quite enjoy this version of his softness. The public, taunting replies to mine. In all this time of following him, I can't really recall him ever being this friendly with anyone but me.

 

Makes me feel special. Maybe too much so.

 

**BAZ**

 

The jarring shock of the seemingly endless notifications rattles me momentarily speechless.

 

It isn't even 15 minutes after I'd replied to Snow and there's already a few people reblogging it with comments about  _ him and I _ . A quick “ _ i ship y'all _ ’ to “ _ powermove of the century _ ”. Each make me flush deeper as the replies flood in.

 

If I were to be practical, I'm aware that I shouldn't be so flustered over the concept of us being a couple. It's most likely my overactive, sad, lonely imagination, but the idea of being loved just makes me blush. Especially since it's someone who doesn't seem to absolutely loathe me.

 

**gaystrell: are you reading these?**

 

_ bi-sammy: the what? _

 

_ bi-sammy: i have. nothing to read. i cant read. _

 

**gaystrell: use your two remaining brain cells look at the notes for the crackfic**

 

_ bi-sammy: holy shit _

 

_ bi-sammy: im cackling _

 

A notification pops up, making me snort this time. I pull up the post and send it off to him without a second thought.

 

**gaystrell:** **sent a post**

 

**gaystrell: “sounds like something huxley would do for sam”**

 

_ bi-sammy: stop im gonna piss myself shits too fucking funny _

 

I pull it back up, scrolling down to reblog and adding a quick reply that, in all honesty, I should have thought out more. Secretly, part of me is glad that I sent it.

 

**huxley wishes he was this smooth ;)**

 

Within seconds, replies flood in from everywhere. From jokes about Snow and I possibly dating to the concept of Huxley writing (purposefully) shitty homoerotica about himself as a fishman. I quite like the conversation about the latter, while the former makes my chest knot in ways inexplicable.

 

Going through the notes makes me smile, even if it's mildly embarrassing. The amount of times I've seen the eyes emoji used is definitely excessive, but still somewhat welcomed.

 

Even my archive has a few comments already, although more based around the fic itself. More ironically, though, is the one person who probably took it seriously and just commented, “Nice fic!” I love the abundance of shameless appreciation for obscure fanfiction in the depths of this community.

 

Snow's messages roll down my mobile screen as I'm checking the comments, continuously replacing the previous message for the top slot. 

 

_ bi-sammy: mate _

 

_ bi-sammy: i love you _

 

_ bi-sammy: also every time you reblog something of mine i get like 5 followers _

 

_ bi-sammy: if you mention me i get 10 _

 

_ bi-sammy: youre???????????? a god???????? _

 

_ bi-sammy: can i marry you???????????? _

 

I slowly close my laptop, eyes on my phone with an absolutely gleeful grin.

 

**gaystrell: when and where?**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> friendly reminder that the links in this fic do, in fact, work. interactive fics are in babes.


	4. Drunk Text

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dev's foot nudges mine, making me disconcerted with their mutual care for my emotions. Usually, they just let me sulk, but tonight… tonight's odd. They're boozing me up and getting me to talk (for once).
> 
> -
> 
> Baz's friends get him a little drunk, which scares Simon half to death. Cue nervous spamming, best friend's advice, and a single picture.

**BAZ**

 

 **(strings_n_roses):** _gods.mistake: i dont know i guess im just scared of losing her family's attention???_

 

My eyes scan over his text in the drop down, thumb pressing onto the screen to keep it half-showing. It's probably not a good idea to be talking to him about this right at this second, but I don't want him to feel abandoned (especially given our topic). The tiny graphic of the Instagram logo looms in the forefront of my mind even after I close my phone, thinking of a response.

 

A hard lemonade bottle rolls and rests against my thigh, making me look up at Dev as he pops open another. Despite calling them a “Gay drink”, he's already gone through two of them.

 

“Oy, you've barely had shit,” he says, twisting off the top of his third as he eyes my one half-empty bottle.

 

“Yeah,” Niall adds, eyebrows narrowing as he lifts his own drink. He bought an even shittier wine cooler. “Loosen up a little, you wound up dick.”

 

Reluctantly, I bring my bottle to my lips and swing, maintaining eye constant with Niall. Even with a weird shiver in a response, he doesn't look away. Neither do I--not until the bottle is finished. With a pop of my lips, I lower the glass and smirk. “There--happy?”

 

“I… guess?” He says slowly. “You okay, mate? What's wrong?”

 

What's wrong?  _ What's wrong? _ Snow's texting me from his bathroom, too tired from crying to get off the tile, and I can't help him in any other way than to talk to him. That's what's wrong. “It's nothing. Just shit. That's all.”

 

Dev's foot nudges mine, making me disconcerted with their mutual care for my emotions. Usually, they just let me sulk, but tonight… tonight's odd. They're boozing me up and getting me to talk (for once).

 

I turn my head head away, looking towards the long, creaking window of mine. It nearly brushes the floor, and looks out upon the broad, rise and fall of our garden. The winter season leaves it beyond chilling.

 

“Can you open that?” I ask, voice tired as I nod towards my cousin. He blinks at me at first before rising to his feet and drawing it open. With a hand on my bed frame, I haul myself upright and onto my feet before digging through my nightstand. In the back lies a pack of cigs and a lighter I snagged from Aunt Fi's flat.

 

Only Dev takes one when I offer, seating myself right on the ledge. Neither of them bat an eye, except Niall's concerned staring as I lean against the frame, striking the light.

 

“Fine, don't answer,” he mumbles, taking back a mouthful of his drink.

 

I let in a drag, feeling it burn the back of my throat as I slide out my phone. Both the boys sit silently, exchanging glances as I finally type back a semi-coherent response for Simon.

 

The already buzzing of my head from the nicotine doesn't fully help my thoughts as much as I hoped it would.

 

**strings_n_roses: christmas is over now, so the holidays are gone. if she weighs heavily on you because of the break up, then it isn't healthy and definitely not a pain that you deserve**

 

**strings_n_roses: and i know she drives you home, but maybe someone on your team will drive you instead if you ask**

 

**strings_n_roses: there's options other than discomfort**

 

I suck in, turning off my phone with the app left open. The sound of Niall's shifting is nearly enough to make me want to yell. Their collective concern is barely appreciated, given it seems to be so sparse when actually needed.

 

In all honesty, I shouldn't blame them. I'm not in school, and they're just trying to help when they can. still, I can't shake the emptiness of their situational devotion to my feelings.

 

“You've been acting odd,” Dev adds first, giving me another drink. I take it, finishing my cig first. Looking at the burning end of it, I hand it out the window and crush it against the stone of the wall, leaving the butt on the sill as I climb off.

 

The drink is always better when you start the second one. “Just life shit. Doesn't matter,” I say, leaning back against the wall as I exhale slowly. There it is. The odd, mostly empty stomach nausea I get whenever I get to drink. Hits me harder, and makes it stronger. And almost definitely going to fuck me over, but it's only a few drinks (and I'm a lightweight, because fuck genetics).

 

As my eyes fall shut, I feel the jostling buzz of my notifications. Without hesitation, I pick it up and read it through as more messages slide down.

 

**(strings_n_roses):** _ gods.mistake: i dont really have friends on the team to drive me _

 

**(strings_n_roses):** gods.mistake: or really anyone, except penny and sort of agatha, i guess

 

**(strings_n_roses):** _ gods.mistake: and her dad. her dad loves me _

 

**(strings_n_roses):** _ gods.mistake: fuck im a little lonely fucker sorry im a killjoy and you're probably doing something more interesting with your life and im just ranting like an idiot fuck sorry _

 

I ignore both Dev and Niall's looks as I attentively swipe it open, head spinning. I barely pay attention to what I'm saying, trying to get a word in before he has a chance to belittle himself further.

 

**strings_n_roses: don't apologise at all. im heer to yell towards**

 

**strings_n_roses: after all im judt drinking im not ewally doingmuch**

 

**SIMON**

 

My heart nearly stops, throat catching as I reread.

 

He's drinking. Fuck.

 

Vision blurring and body weak, the process of pulling myself upright makes it a battle all in itself.

 

The bathroom floor is filthy, but it felt like home. One minute I was standing, washing my hands silently in the sink, then I met my eyes in the mirror and crumpled onto the old, ratty bathmat. I'd just cried, a quiet sob into my wrist as the details of the room overwhelmed me. The dripping of the sink, the burning of the lights. The fear of losing Penny because I've practically lost Agatha already.

 

I don't even know if I miss her. I don't know if I want to miss her. I miss her family at Christmas--this was the first year since moving here without me going to the Wellbeloves for the holidays. I know I miss the way we'd sit together in silence, shoulder to shoulder and watching Doctor Who, but I don't know if I miss  _ us. _

 

She'd told me today that I'm too much. It's been months since the break up, but she said she still had something to say. That something, apparently, is that my life's unnecessary overwhelming, and I don't make her happy.

 

I told her likewise to me, even if I didn't mean it.

 

Maybe I did. I don't know.

 

I don't know anything.

 

I don't know why Baz is drinking. He'd told me a month or so back that he does occasionally, but he usually refrains from drunk texting. Says he doesn't like waking up to messages he didn't mean to send. I wonder what's different tonight.

 

I wipe my eyes, sniffling as quietly as possible as my trembling fingers tap out a response.

 

_ gods.mistake: please drink water _

 

_ gods.mistake: and limit yourself. dont drink too much fuck just slow down _

 

_ gods.mistake: did you eat? make sure youre eating _

 

_ gods.mistake: please dont do anything stupid just please dont hurt yourself _

 

At first, he's silent. The read receipt pops up, then stays still. Something in me thumps, then grows in strength as I struggle to breathe evenly again.

 

I've seen it too often. Too fast--too soon. The spiraling, the life destruction. The kids a few years older than me stashing stolen pill bottles under beds and liquor in their pillow cases.

 

I don't want him to hurt like that, and I can feel it already. The biting edge of coping.

 

My hand slides through my hair, settling amongst tangled curls as I shake. A disappearing picture from him pops up, starling me slight before I exhale, opening it.

 

It's his hand, the flash on it as he holds a pint sized glass of water. I can recognize it from his pictures of violin playing, scattered throughout his damned aesthetic Instagram account. It's the only part of his body I can recognize, and I know it well. Smooth on the back, and calloused fingertips with sharp jutting angles of his joins. His skin is a midtone of soft brown, like the shade of a perfect cup of tea, and his palm fades much lighter. You can tell he's some posh arse, because his nails are always trimmed and buffed.

 

And there they are, holding a glass of water with a crudely drawn smiley face on the screen. The room is mostly dark around it, and I can only make out hardwood floor and a thick, red carpet.

 

 _(gods.mistake):_ **strings_n_roses: i'm okay i promise! i'm a healthy boy**

 

 _(gods.mistake):_ **strings_n_roses: :)**

 

_ (gods.mistake)  _ **strings_n_roses: i’m with friends rhey’re takint xare of me i promise i an ok!**

 

_ gods.mistake: ok ok im sorry for freaking out im sorry _

 

I chew on my nail, biting around to the cuticles as my eyes squeeze shut. I'm overreacting again. I'm blowing up.

 

I tap out of the app and pull of my messaging, pulling my one of few conversations--Penny.

 

_ im losing it right now penn _

 

_ its so stupid and youre gonna hate me but im losing it fuck me fuck shit fuck fuck fuck _

 

You've texted your last fuck, buddy

 

It's the swearing police

 

I've come to ask for a recount of why on Earth you're sobbing

 

_ its stupid its so stupid im sorry _

 

_ its baz hes drinking _

 

_ and i panicked and messaged him a ton but im worried i pissed him off and he might hate me what if he hates me _

 

_ fuck shit fuck _

 

Do you have any basis on him hating you???

 

Did he text you all angry???

 

_ no but i feel it im stupid and i know it i feel it _

 

First of all, stop

 

Second of all, if he's not angry, he's not angry

 

Third, why does this matter so much? You barely know him

 

_ thats not true we talk everyday _

 

He's online, Si

 

You can lose him in a snap, why care?

 

Why do you even trust him so much you don't know what he looks like ://

 

_ i know what his hands look like _

 

_ thats something _

 

_ and just idk i trust him he seems to care _

 

_ and we like the same stuff and i just _

 

_ idk _

 

_ i trust him _

 

_ why are you talking about this again now _

 

_ i thought we were over this _

 

I said I was tired of you talking about Baz at lunch, I didn't say we were over the conversation

 

I'm just worried, that's all

 

Fuck knows you don't have someone else to worry about you over this, and he could just be some arse praying on you because you're vulnerable

 

People do that, you know

 

_ hes not some 80 year old creep penn _

 

_ he seems as young as he says _

 

_ and he doesnt use me or anything we just talk _

 

_ im ok im safe i swear _

 

_ hes just scaring me _

 

Just be safe, Simon.

 

Something makes me jump, and it takes a full moment to register that it's Davy knocking around downstairs, doing whatever he does in his study. I should be in bed. He knows I should be in bed. He'll want me to be asleep, after all.

 

I tiptoe out carefully, knowing where the floor doesn't creak as I slip back into my room and in bed. The blanket's shit and scratchy, but it's something.

 

As I plug my mobile in, I send out a quick message to Baz, letting my embarrassment ease through while I swallow my pride.

 

_ gods.mistake: im sorry for freaking out _

 

_ gods.mistake: sleep tight pls _


	5. Gay Vampire... Gampire?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bi-sammy: im serious im your mate
> 
> bi-sammy: i care about you baz
> 
> -
> 
> Joking conversations turn into genuine affection, blurring the lines of intimacy for the two boys.

**SIMON**

 

**gaystrell: i'd be shocked to find out you don't look like a mountain troll**

 

_ bi-sammy: t _

 

_ bi-sammy: take that back _

 

_ bi-sammy: coward _

 

_ bi-sammy: bold words for a man who probably looks like a cryptid _

 

**gaystrell: you know i can't even argue against that**

 

**gaystrell: my friends say i look like i'm a step off from being an actual vampire, so i can't say i don't look like a cryptid**

 

_ bi-sammy: wait _

 

_ bi-sammy: you what _

 

_ bi-sammy: im actually cackling please tell me youre kidding _

 

**gaystrell: all but the teeth, baby**

 

_ bi-sammy: thats so fucking funny holy shit what _

 

_ bi-sammy: your new name is vampire _

 

_ bi-sammy: gay vampire _

 

_ bi-sammy: gampire _

 

**gaystrell: you know how easily i can hit block, right?**

 

_ bi-sammy: oh no! mr. gampire threatens me! _

 

I keep a hand clasped over my face, snorting quietly. In attempts to be quiet, I hope the hand over my face is silencing enough that it doesn't annoy the other visitors (or get me kicked out).

 

The tiniest part of me wants to ask something I've wanted to know for a while, but the rational part of me is too scared to ask. How do you even bring that up? “Hey I know we're online pals, but I have no idea what you actually look like. Would you mind flipping on that little camera and snapping a pic? Just real quick? So I know I'm not mad and slightly crushing over a faceless arsehole who gets me to laugh like crazy?”

 

**gaystrell: what, do your friends not say you look like something ridiculous?**

 

_ bi-sammy: what friends? _

 

_ bi-sammy: i mean penny. she says i just look stupid. _

 

_ bi-sammy: i dunno i just. look like me? _

 

Impulsively, I click on my camera app and stare into it. I look a lot of things. 

 

I look tired. Hungry. Overworked. Constantly on the verge of a fit.

 

I look like a disaster, that's what I am. An unkempt, clueless disaster.

 

_ bi-sammy: i dont look at myself too often, honestly _

 

_ bi-sammy: i wish i had friends to tell me shit _

 

**gaystrell: what about parents?**

 

_ bi-sammy: hah _

 

_ bi-sammy: you mean davy??? _

 

_ bi-sammy: have i really not told you this before? _

 

**gaystrell: no..?**

 

_ bi-sammy: im a foster kid _

 

_ bi-sammy: im in the system _

 

_ bi-sammy: really don't know fuck shit about my parents _

 

**BAZ**

 

Something in me stops, cheeks flushing as I suck my lower lip into my mouth. The text bar blinks, seemingly taunting me. I don't know what to say. I don't know how to help him.

 

I… want him to be okay. I want more than that. I want him happy.

 

Why am I such a fucking softie for him?

 

Why can't I solve this?

 

**gaystrell: who's davy then?**

 

I leave the message, and wait. And wait and wait and wait.

 

It's fine, though. I know he's sort of busy, and he goes around and does a good bit throughout his day. Still, I leave my vibration setting on as I turn on my telly, mute it, then work on writing.

 

Eventually, he pops back up.

 

_ bi-sammy: foster parent _

 

_ bi-sammy: not for long though _

 

_ bi-sammy: its hit the road once im 18 _

 

_ bi-sammy: its okay tho im gonna find a flat with penny and it'll be fine _

 

**gaystrell: does he even care for you? how long have you been with him?**

 

_ bi-sammy: years _

 

_ bi-sammy: he likes his foster cheques but :///// _

 

_ bi-sammy: hes shit i guess but i try to ignore him _

 

_ bi-sammy: he doesnt hit me so i just remind myself to be happy about that _

 

_ bi-sammy: that and not being in a home _

 

**gaystrell: that's not very comforting**

 

_ bi-sammy: its not bad i dont mind _

 

_ bi-sammy: why whats your family like _

 

What  _ is _ my family like?

 

**gaystrell: complicated.**

 

**gaystrell: not terrible just**

 

**gaystrell: nothing it's not as bad as your situation i have no reason to complain**

 

_ bi-sammy: no wait no im serious im curious dont feel put down by me _

 

_ bi-sammy: shit sorry i dont wanna be a downer shit _

 

**gaystrell: don't apologize it's fine**

 

**gaystrell: it's just…….. strange for me, that's all**

 

**gaystrell: my mum died in an accident when i was five and my dad remarried when i was seven**

 

**gaystrell: i have some half-siblings, but they're all pretty young**

 

**gaystrell: we're just ridiculously posh and have too much money**

 

**gaystrell: and life got all odd when i got diagnosed**

 

_ bi-sammy: diagnosed??? _

 

**gaystrell: i have hemophilia type a**

 

**gaystrell: pretty shit case too**

 

**gaystrell: i have to be careful and all that so dad just pulled me from school a few years back in case**

 

**gaystrell: i online school, you numpty. that's why i'm always online**

 

_ bi-sammy: shit _

 

_ bi-sammy: fuck youre right _

 

_ bi-sammy: that makes a lot of sense shit _

 

_ bi-sammy: fuck thats some bullshit _

 

_ bi-sammy: how do you interact with people? _

 

**gaystrell: i don't.**

 

**gaystrell: i have two mates, and ones my cousin**

 

**gaystrell: the other is his “totally and completely, absolutely straight” friend**

 

_ bi-sammy: you have me _

 

**gaystrell: don't be a sap, snow**

 

_ bi-sammy: im serious im your mate _

 

_ bi-sammy: i care about you baz _

 

The changing pictures of the television screen flicker on my face as I stare, barely able to swallow.

 

I should tell him. I need to tell him. It's too much--I can barely take knowing it myself.

 

Opening a note file, I throw it all out. Every word I need to say.

 

**shit, i care about you too. too fucking much. to the point it's weird, probably, and im nearly sure you don't feel the same, but shit. simon you're so bloody fantastic and i think about you a lot and you're one of my only friends. i feel so guilty never being enough for you, but just thinking of you makes me soft.**

 

**i know i've never said this, but i want us to keep this. the talking. the constant contact. i want to see your face--i know im mean, but i bet you're actually gorgeous. i want to verbally talk to you. i want to reach through my screen and hold you. i want you to know how much i care, simon, because i do care. i care too much.**

 

My jaw sets, eyes scanning my words once. Twice. A third time.

 

It aches like a flame, burning my chest. It's too much to say. Not enough to hide behind. It's blunt and out there, and the truth. I don't like it being the truth, but it is.

 

It so unfairly is.

 

I look at our chat, scrolling up and back down before typing out a quick cop-out.

 

**gaystrell: i care about you too, simon**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cups hands over mouth* just kiss you weak little bastards


	6. Can You Hear Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fumbling with my cigarette, I switch it to my non dominant hand as I slide my mobile and press it to my ear. “Hello?” I say, not even thinking out my answer. Fuck. Wait. Too formal.
> 
> -
> 
> Simon has a simple request for Baz, as nerve wracking as it may be.

**BAZ**

 

I used to hate mornings. Loathed them. Thought they were the shittiest time of the day--the part where it all started. Except, now that I get daily good morning texts from Snow, accompanied by an odd little meme (usually an obscured, “deep fried” one), I can’t say I hate mornings anymore.

 

It’s so silly, given it’s such a small thing, but additions of something sentimental and small in my day makes me feel more alive.

 

Good morning texts. Daily updates. Stupid jokes, playful nicknames, and the intimacy of a phone number. We’re intertwined far enough that Dev and Niall know about him now. I’ve grown proud of speaking about him; he’s rather stupid sometimes, but I always smile at those messages. Sure, I haven’t seen his face yet, or heard his voice, but that doesn’t matter. It may be an issue one day, but for now, I’ll live with where we are.

 

It’s not entirely positive, though. I know he only texts because he can’t always afford extra data, and  _ Davy _ cuts the wifi, but it’s more comforting to hear a mobile tone than to feel just a notif buzz.

 

When I woke up this morning, though, the space where his message usually sits is vacant, leaving the last received one to be from last night.

 

_ im fukcin exhausted goodnight x _

 

That’s it. Nothing new, nothing to get excited over. Nothing to smile about.

 

Nothing in my DMs, and Instagram says he hasn’t been online since yesterday afternoon. It’s mildly concerning, to say the least.

 

I try to distract myself, but I can’t eat (too nauseous), nor can I sit still. My shower is terrible, and the empty, numbing feeling is driving me insane. It’s nearly 11 by the time I finally get something--a simple, unexpected, heartstopping text.

 

_ hey can i call you tonight? _

 

I double check to make sure I’m not misreading it, then exit out of the app before opening it again. Surely enough, I hadn't read it wrong.

 

He wants to call me. He wants to hear my voice. I get to hear his voice.

 

While the circumstances call for a concerned pause, I still throw an answer towards him despite the twisting of my gut.

 

**of course you can**

 

**call whenever you have a chance, i’ll be here**

 

_ thank you _

 

_ sorry i know i usually text sooner _

 

_ its just a bad day _

 

_ i know im shitty _

 

**you’re not shitty**

 

**really don’t apologize it’s okay**

 

**so long as you’re okay**

 

_ i cant promise im ok but im alive _

 

**good enough for me**

 

I lay my phone face down, hands scrubbing over my eyes as I exhale slowly. He’s alive. That’s more than good enough for me--that’s a spark of hope. He can always get better, but he can’t stop being dead (whatever-the-fuck-deity  _ forbid _ that ever happens).

 

Slowly, my eyes drift towards the window. It’s a sunny day. The weather’s growing warmer, and he only gets out in a month or so. Maybe… maybe I can see him once summer hits. I’ll drive out to wherever he is, and we’ll finally get to exist inside the same spaces. I’ll shake his hand. I’ll take him to dinner (maybe go get a drink, if he’s 18 by then). I’ll be stupid for once in my life and make a bold move. It’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.

 

I look at my phone, repeating it in a soft utter. “We’ll be okay,” I say into the empty room around me, heart speaking differently. Who knows if he'll be okay  _ now _ . Eventually, we’ll find our peace within the world. He’ll stop hurting, and I’ll start living. We just have to make it over this hurdle.

 

As my fingers drag across the cotton sheets, I let my mind wander off into thought. I wonder what his voice sounds like. I wonder what accent he has (I don’t even know what region he’s from). How should I address him? Is it proper to begin with a casual “Hi”?

 

This is shit. I wish I knew what to do. I wish I knew what we were, so it’d be easier.

 

A bird chips outside, and I break back into an empty stare out the glass.

 

It’s all empty. I  _ feel _ empty. Everything feels so empty for hours as I drag myself around the house like a spineless ghost, hoping to hear from my distant friend. I barely feel the need to eat, and I can’t bring myself to care enough to go for a walk to shake off my nerves. Instead, I sit, stare at the wall silently, making pointless reblogged posts on the occasion I can bring myself to look at my mobile. By the early evening, I’ve updated one of my fics and answered a good handful of asks from a numbers post. It’s all mindless and meaningless, but it’s a distraction.

 

Not enough of one, sadly. By early evening, I get antsy enough to drag myself out of bed and find my pack of cigs.

 

I contemplate the windowsill briefly, then decide against it in favor of going down to the garage. It used to be the stables, so there’s plenty of room to hide by a window and smoke one or two.

 

Tucking the lighter and pack in my pockets, I slip out quickly enough. My mobile stays in hand, ready to respond to any buzz.

 

It doesn’t come immediately. Not as I’m getting comfortable, pillow pressed to my back in the dusty stone and brick building. I settle against the window, cracking it open slightly while my head leans back against the wall. In my mouth lies a cigarette, with another tucked behind my ear. I flick the lighter a few times before it sputters to life

 

Holding it up, I watch the satisfying glow of the end as my hands tremble. Honestly, I hate smoking. I hate the taste it leaves, I hate the way it seeps into my clothes, but there's a shaking of my nerves that calms it while lighting my insides up.

 

Carefully, I suck it in, holding back the smoke as I stare out the warped glass. After a slow inhale, I let the tendril of smoke trickle from my lips. I hate this.

 

I go through the first one, stubbing it onto the stone. About halfway through the second, my mobile starts buzzing nonstop. Looking down, I already know who it is.

 

_ offbrand sammy _

 

Fumbling with my cigarette, I switch it to my non dominant hand as I slide my mobile and press it to my ear. “Hello?” I say, not even thinking out my answer. Fuck. Wait. Too formal.

 

The formalities don't even matter, because suddenly, there's sobs on the other line. They break out, coming in muffled bursts as my heart sinks. In all my utter uselessness, I sit completely silent, jaw hanging open as I wait. After what feels like minutes, rather than seconds, of him crying, his voice comes through. It's clear, deep, Northern, and cuts me to the bone.

 

“Holy shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rainbow rowell said baz doesn't smoke, so i make baz smoke, except he hates it. i feel like this is the weirdest joint custody of a child, except she has full custody and i just sneak him out of his bedroom at night to go do stupid things as the estranged divorcee


	7. It's All For Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He pauses audibly, the line going silent for all but for the whistle of the wind. “I…”
> 
> “Do you trust me?”
> 
> “Y-yes.”
> 
> -
> 
> Desperate times call for dramatically impulsive measures. As in, Baz makes a quick decision and a long drive.

BAZ

It starts flowing from him. Every word I know he’s kept up--every little thought, every small nick on his mind flowing out onto a continuous thought, broken relatively regularly by a stutter. Must be something he has, or at least something that reappears when he’s overworked.

“Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck,” he lets stream. “First of all, you’re bloody real. I-I-I-I can’t believe you’re real. You’re real. Are you real?”

I exhale slowly, cheeks pulling into a guilty, sad smile. “I’m real, Snow,” I mutter into the speaker, heart aching.

“Fuck,” he cries, then he’s cut by the sound of muffled words, the speaker crackling a bit. Must be covering his mouth. He continues, after a moment. “Fuck, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I’m s-so sorry. I’m--this is ridiculous. I’m ridiculous. I-I-I sh-should stop talking, it’s just… Penny. And Davy. And Aggie. And bloody you…” He pauses briefly, catching his breath. I can hear his exhale. It’s shaky and terrifying. “It’s everything. I’m--Davy. He’s too much. I-I know I told you h-he isn’t, but he is. Too strict. Too strict too strict too…”

“Breathe,” I interject, eyes squeezed shut as I listen intently. Counting the seconds, I pay attention to the shaking inhale and exhale from his side. We're only a couple seconds in and he's starting to scare me. Brilliant. I'm in far too deep.

“I’m sorry,” he starts off with. “He’s just… loud. Angry. So close. Won’t get far… I need to get away. I’m scared--I have no reason to be, but I’m so scared. All the time. I u-used to be okay, but he’s scaring me, but I have nowhere to go. And I’m scared, Baz.” Hearing my name makes it exponentially worse. I take another quiet drag to calm my nerves, eyes squeezing tighter as I hear him continue. “I’m just scared of everything.

“I’m scared of Penny hating me, o-o-o-o-or just being friends with me out of convenience. I-I-I know she says she c-c-cares, but what if she’ll just d-ditch me after school? I put her through t-t-t-too much. I put everyone through too much.” He gets quiet for a moment before dropping his voice to a near whisper. “I’m sc-scared of you drinking and smoking. I’m scared you do it to hurt yourself.”

My eyes flutter open, dropping to my cigarette as the taste lingers in my mouth. Guiltily, I stub it out onto the stone, eyes falling back shut as I'm dead silent. I can’t deny it. It’d be a lie.

“A-and I know, I have n-no place to say anything, but I’m scared. I get worried. I want you s-safe. I don’t talk about it, b-b-b-but I care so much. All the time.

“B-But I’m not really good enough to deserve that care back. That’s the th-th-th-th-thing. I’ll never be good enough, n-not even for love! Aggie br-broke it off because I’m unlovable, a-and I don’t know what to do. I’m--”

“Where are you right now?” I break in, at last. The anxieties clenching at my body make my throat constrict even as I speak, but I push past it. I need to say this. It’s too much just hearing him speak feels--it's like a knife digging into my side. Hearing him say he’s unlovable is too much. If it’s time to be irrational, then it’s time to make dramatic choices.

“Wh-what?”

“I asked where you are right now,” I ease out, sighing quietly at the end.

“U-um,” he starts, and pauses. Not a good sign, to start with. “P-park. Public park. ‘M by the swings.”

“Where is that, Simon?”

“I--no.”

“Why?”

“You’ll call the cops, or something,” he mumbles fearfully, voice growing softer as his voice crackles in the microphone. “I can’t…”

“I won’t,” I promise quickly. “I’m not going to call the cops, just… tell me. Where are you?”

He says a place up in Newcastle, which doesn’t settle well in the slightest. That’s…at least six hours, if I drive. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. “Shit,” I whisper, rubbing my thumbs over my temples.

“What?” He sounds nervous. Even better.

“No. Nonono,” I begin, trying to think. Six hours and it’ll be nearly midnight. Then what? No, fuck it. No. Doesn’t matter. We’ll figure out there. “Hold tight, please. Do you trust me?”

He pauses audibly, the line going silent for all but for the whistle of the wind. “I…”

“Do you trust me?”

“Y-yes.”

“Then hold tight. Get comfortable, it’s going to be a few hours.”

Another pause, then a final breath of relief. “Okay.”

Once I click off (reluctantly) from the call, I clear the evidence of my cigarettes and head off to the house, fiddling with the mobile in my hands. Inside, through the maze, I find my father in his study looking over paperwork with a pen in hand. I bother knocking, despite the door hanging open. He pops his head up, narrowing his eyes at me. Before he has a moment to question, I interject quickly.

“I’m heading off for the weekend.”

“Where?”

“Aunt Fi’s,” I lie, throat feeling even tighter than usual. Maybe not a lie. We'll find out. “I need to get out into the city. It’s a deathly bore around here.”

“Are you bringing Devon and Niall with you?”

“No, they’ve got class. I’ll be safe, I promise.”

He scans over me, going from head-to-toe, then back up again. It’s a sad routine of ours; his hesitation in any attempts of me living, then my attempts to seem as innocent as possible.

“I’ll see if I can visit campus while I’m there,” I add as an incentive, knowing quite well how much he wants me to go to LSE. “Might have to stay ‘til Monday…”

“That’s quite enough, Basilton,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. I shut up immediately, standing bolt upright as he sighs. “Do you need petrol for the drive?”

“Yes,” I say quickly, fiddling with my phone case. “I mean, yes, please. Thank you, father.”

His eyes drop back to his paper, lips twitching into his classic apathetic frown. “Right, well, I’ll add enough to your account, and money for food. God knows your Aunt doesn’t have any non perishables in that awful studio flat.”

Internally, I grin like a madman. I’m jumping and crying thankful sobs, but externally, I simply nod politely. “Thank you,” I say again, giving the smallest of smiles before running off to throw together a long weekend bag. Once I hit the car, I check to see my bank account.

While starting it up, I scroll my notifs. No word from Snow, but that should be fine. Everything should be fine.

The route seems painstakingly long, and I barely have enough energy to make it to London most weeks, so this will be… an experience.

Nonetheless, this isn’t just for anybody, of course. It’s for Simon, and that, frankly, is all that fucking matters.

Simon, his comfort, and his safety. And I’m going to assure that I’ve got control of all three of those.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> simon: h-
> 
> baz, grabbing his car keys: fucking shit you're the light of my goddamn life hold the fuck up


	8. You Look Better in Person

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bag pressed to his chest loosens slightly, slumping down onto his lap as he swallows again. I can’t stop myself from watching him, heart thumping. It’s unreal--he must be unreal.
> 
> “Hey,” he whispers, the same shock I’m wearing mirrored onto his face.
> 
> -
> 
> Simon and Baz's first encounter leaves them both awestruck.

**BAZ**

 

It’s a bloody pain in my ass, headache of a drive. I barely got halfway through before turning off my music and just focusing on what I’d say--how I’d react. It isn’t just getting Snow, it’s  _ seeing _ him. An experience that’s completely new to the both of us. Somehow, despite him saying he’s the scared one, I find myself being absolutely petrified. I (only slightly) doubt he’ll reject my offer of help, especially since I'm driving up the country to get him, but I do suspect him to be hesitant of me nonetheless.

 

Oddly enough, I feel none of that fear towards him. No matter what, I’ll be there for him. I’m not quite sure what to expect, though. Fuck if any expectations I have for him matters, really.

 

I’d thought too much over the drive. Frankly, I think too much overall. That, I need to stop.

 

Staring at my phone mindlessly truly proves it, given I don’t have half a brain cell to coherently read the maps as they show me around the city. Eventually, though (through trial and error), I find myself going down the same street twice, trying to spot a local park that's apparently down the road. Google Maps yells at me, telling me I’m rapidly approaching my destination (over and over, between each condescending “Recalculation”).

 

My heart pounds faster with each rotation of my wheels, making my vision all fuzzy and warped. Exhaling slowly, I peer around and spot someone lying on a bench in the centre of the park, dressed up in a hoodie, sweats, and trainers. They seem to be hugging a duffel bag close, as if everything that's left is inside of it. I can’t quite make much out of them, with to their hood being pulled tight around their face and all, but I can tell that they’re alone.

 

Once parked, I shoot Simon a quick text, trying to swallow back my fear of what's probably true. That it is him.

 

**i’m in the black volvo in the lot**

 

Suddenly, the head of the person shoots up, then starts looking around as their body rises. I still can’t see their face, shadowed down by the harsh lamp lights, but they seem to be facing me.

 

That… must be him.

 

He pulls himself to standing, a slight hunch in his shoulders as he hauls the bag over his left one. He’s broad, and a solid height, too. When the light catches the few hairs spilling from his hood, they shine a deep copper.

 

Each of his steps feel like a lifetime. Exhausted, heavy stomps of his feet onto the ground as he brings himself closer until he stands barely a yard away from the car. Shamelessly, I stare out the window, wide eyed and barely choking out a breath.

 

He’s absolutely, unbelievably handsome. Square jawed, curly haired, and blue,  _ blue _ eyes. He’s got a near rugby build, and a tired, barely existent smile pressing his freckled and moled cheeks into creases. He is, without a doubt, one of the most the most gorgeous humans I’ve ever seen.

 

His hand rises up shakily, nearly forming a wave as he struggles to keep a face in a readable expression other than wordless, overworked sadness.

 

My hand slides down my door, finding the lock without me looking and flicking the doors unlocked with a clear  _ click _ . I watch as he hesitates at first, looking between me and the car a few times. The fluorescent lights flicker as he swallows, neck bobbing along.

 

Eventually, he relents and slips into the passenger seat without taking his eyes off me once.

 

At first, we just stare. Silent, carefully timed breaths fill the car as we just look over one another. I must look tired; I feel tired. He looks it, too.

 

I cut off my own words before I speak. I know he  _ is _ tired. I don’t even need to ask.

 

The bag pressed to his chest loosens slightly, slumping down onto his lap as he swallows again. I can’t stop myself from watching him, heart thumping. It’s unreal--he must be unreal.

 

“Hey,” he whispers, the same shock I’m wearing mirrored onto his face.

 

**SIMON**

 

He’s so beautiful that I can barely think of words. Of all things I could say, of all things I  _ should _ say, none of them weasel out other than “Hey”.

 

Granted, I have nothing  _ better _ to say, given I’d probably be stupid and call him every word I’m thinking of.

 

I’ve never quite met a bloke who’s as pretty as he is. Slate eyes, brown skin, and ink black hair that starts at a widow’s peak, falling onto his shoulders in the slightest of waves. Despite the dark circles under his eyes, he seems alert and a bit shaken, a hand gripping the shifting stick that’s resting clearly on “P”.

 

I can’t quite think of anything else to vocalize. I’ve cried too much tonight, and it’s really fucking late. I need to rest… I just want…

 

“Why were you at the park?” He asks, suddenly dropping my gaze. It’s fine, though--my eyes drift back down to his narrow, bony hands, gliding movements over the shift. He pushes it into “R”, pulling the car out of the spot before turning, flicking to “D”, and going. His hands are like the pictures. It’s relaxing.

 

“Hm? O-oh,” I say quietly, fiddling with the strap of my bag. With a glance from him towards my buckle, I realize I missed a step. Fuck. I click myself in, continuing, “I’d told Davy I-I was going to Penn’s all weekend f-for a school project after our fight, b-b-but I told Penn I was gr-grounded.”

 

“So…”

 

“So I’m stuck,” I add, gaze shifting out the window and staying there. “Nowhere to go.”

 

He’s silent for a second, the only sound filling the air being the popping of rocks under the tyres. Once down the street, and another street, and then another, he finally says  _ something. _

 

“I’ve got somewhere,” he finally starts. When I look at him, he’s avoidant--eyes unwaveringly ahead, and hands gripping the wheel so tight that his knuckles are pulled taunt. “It’s a bit far, though. You can nap, if you want. It’ll be some time.”

 

“Where..?”

 

“You’ll see when we’re there.” And with that, he’s silent again. Given the flatness of his answer, I don’t feel it proper to argue. Really, I can’t argue at all with the prospect of a rest.

 

So, I take it. I suppose I’m asleep for a few good hours before I’m jostled awake by the overwhelming, perpetually buzzing lights of a petrol station. It's still dark out.

 

I peer out to see Baz standing, glancing over his shoulder at the machine as his hands hold the pump. Instinctively, I pull my hoodie closer, finally getting a good look at him in some sort of full light.

 

Shit. He even looks good at the pump.

 

He catches my eyes briefly, staring back before quickly turning back away, and acting as if I don’t see him swallow sharply. I act like I didn’t see it either, especially not as he sits back in the car and looks towards me, but not directly at me. “Hungry?”

 

Always. “A bit.”

 

He wordlessly pulls up to the store of the station before turning back off the car. “Come on, I’ll cover you.”

 

Given I only have the little cash I had in my sock drawer on me, I don’t argue. Instead, I step out and follow him, glancing up once I'm entirely trailing behind him. He’s got a few good inches on me, which, frankly, makes me blush a good bit. Who gave him the right to be practically a supermodel?

 

“Get anything,” he says, and I do. Two bags of crisps, a bottle of chocolate milk, and a shitty, wrapped cinnamon roll. He just grabs a coffee, pouring an egregious amount of sugar and creamer into it before going up to pay. He doesn’t even flinch--just pays.

 

It feels odd. Looks odd. It’s like Aggie paying--a disregard of wealth beyond a comprehensive point.

 

Back in the car, he sips his drink, cringes, and waits until I’m buckled back in before going.

 

I’m up this time, and probably for the long run, as he starts driving again.

 

“So, where  _ are _ we going?” I ask, twisting the cap off the milk and hearing the satisfying snap of the breaking seal. “I feel like I should allowed to know eventually.”

 

“London,” he responds borderline robotically, not bothering a look at me.

 

“Wait, fuck. London? Isn’t that--”

 

“Six hours, yes. You’ve slept for well over half the trip, don’t worry.” He risks a quick glance at me, and as if it were magic, I see him relax. His muscles drop the tension, and his seemingly permanent frown loosens to a genuine flash of concern. Then, as quickly as his composure went, it comes back. Like it was a flicker in his system. “Just rest.”

 

“How are you staying up?”

 

“Will power.”

 

I don’t stop the snort slipping out, biting my lip. “You really are a vampire, huh?”

 

His face relaxes back slightly, spreading into the smallest of smiles. “No, but that’d be more fun.”

 

I huff in agreement, letting myself grin along this time. “It would be, yeah.”

 

We fall silent again, but this time it’s a bit better. It’s an odd reminder that this, this Baz right in front of me, is the same one I’ve known for months. It’s just his flesh and blood--living and breathing body. A human.

 

I want to reach out and touch him, to see if he’s real. I nearly do so, but my mind stops me before my hand grips his. I think he catches sight of my reach, though, because the arm closest to me drops from the wheel, resting palm-up on the centre console.

 

Either it’s an invitation or a mistake. Both are something I’m dumb enough to work with.

 

My fingertips skate over his wrist first, glazing over the ridges where his veins sit. They ridge up, rising above the rest of his smooth arm and pumping below my touch. At first, he begins to retract before stopping himself and staying, opened up to me. A careful fingertip moves to trace the lines of his palm, my breath barely under control. He lets me have my time, and slowly yet surely, I settle my hand on top of his, fingers shifting until they’re locked between his.

 

His hand curls up first, holding tightly to mine, When I look at him, he’s lightly sucking on his lip, keeping his eyes trained forward as his thumb slowly slides over my hand.

 

If it wasn’t for the weight of the day, I might’ve started crying again. Instead, I find myself staring. I settle my head back onto the comfortable, leather headrest, eyes falling softly onto the sharp edges of his face. I trace them, thankful for each passing car of street light that illuminates the cabin just enough to let me see the details.

 

His eyes look puffy and dark, dark eyelashes falling onto his skin. His nose sits a bit high, and his brow seems aristocratic. His lips, at a natural downcurve, hang open in the slightest and look a bit shiny when he stops biting them.

 

He doesn’t put any attention onto me, but holds my hand against his comfortably, keeping the slow drag of his skin against mine. It isn't rough, like mine is, except for at his pads. They're calloused right at the tips.

 

I space out, watching him attentively until countryside fades into bright city lights, mixing with the creeping sun.

 

He pulls up into a lot, telling them the apartment number before the car climbs up into a space. Once parked, he lets go of my palm with a sorry look, glancing over me once before stepping out.

 

He doesn’t let me carry my bag, holding both his and mine in each arm. The walk is brief, and within minutes, he’s pushing a key into a small, comfortable London flat, letting me inside first.

 

The lights are all shut, and it's got the distinct layer of light dust to show it's been untouched for months. He confirms my sneaking suspicion even before I get to ask it.

 

“It's my aunt's,” he says away from me, settling my bag onto a chair and his on an adjacent one. “She travels in the winter to somewhere warmer, and leaves me a key to get away.”

 

“I know. I've followed you long enough, you know.” I'd smile if my cheeks weren't too weak to hold one.

 

After stealing a look at his blushing face, I drag myself to the bed, running a hand over the sheet slowly. The other side dips with Baz's weight as he settles down onto the edge, staring at the pulling sheets with his hand settling so close to mine.

 

I must be mad, because I reconnect my fingers with his on impulse.

 

At first, we're still. I'm standing, and he's sitting. We're statues, dimly lit by the outside life. He must not be brave, or maybe I just might be more stupid, because I'm the first to move. My fingers weave between his, hand pressing closer towards him as we remain in an odd silence.

 

I wish I knew what I was doing.

 

Even without a full mind, I know what feels right, and it's being as close to Baz as possible. So maybe I don't need to know exactly what I'm doing, I just need to know that it's good.

 

**BAZ**

 

I wish I knew what he was doing.

 

I know what  _ I _ want. I want to wrap my arms around him and hold him close. I want us to bathe in the rising sun and forget everything else in the world.

 

I want his hood off, and I want my fingers in his hair.

 

I want it so bad that I stop thinking and I do it, reaching my hand out and slowly dragging the cotton-y cloth off. Out springs his hair, clearly darker in the faint lights, but sticking up and unruly. My hand hesitates, fingers hovering above his scalp before I feel his head tilt and rest against my palm.

 

It's thick. Unbrushed. Uses shit shampoo and probably rarely conditions.

 

Nonetheless, it's fantastic. I can barely explain feeling of just carding my fingers through it.

 

Simon's eyes fall only my face, dancing around before falling back shut. I can feel the rise and fall of his body with a heavy breath, making my heart nearly stop.

 

“Is this okay?” whisper, holding his head carefully. His curls bob with his nod, eyes still settled shut. “How… about sleeping?”

 

“What about it?”

 

“There's one bed, and a couch. I can sleep on the couch…”

 

He shakes his head, keeping against me. “‘M not shy,” he whispers as an odd invitation to share.

 

I'm definitely not the one to turn it down.

 

“Neither am I,” I whisper back, hand squeezing his. He just looks towards out touching skin, biting his lip while letting go to unlace his trainers. I take the hint to unlace my own shoes, settling them aside before tugging at the blankets. He shifts, allowing me to turn them down and slip inside. He doesn't follow, lying above the blanket.

 

“Aren't you cold?” I murmur, turning to my side. He mirrors, propping himself on his elbow.

 

“Rarely.”

 

“Why?”

 

He shrugs, heavy eyes falling back shut.

 

I want to prove it for myself.

 

My hand reaches out, fingertips settling hesitantly onto his cheek. Surely enough, his it’s well warm under mine.

 

His lashes are short, but a gentle contrast against his skin as they flutter back open. They lay on my hand, then my own eyes, lip sucking into his mouth as he bites it. He's dead silent as he extends his hand, meeting my cheek with his palm.

 

“You're freezing,” he lets out, nose wrinkling. His hand doesn't move away.

 

“Always am.”

 

“Damn, I'm sorry.”

 

Helplessly, my face falls into an open smile, shamelessly relaxing. “It's fine. It's just… how it is.”

 

His eyes rest back on mine, staying there as his fingers flatten down. Eventually, I feel his thumb rub back and forth against my skin, hand cupping me gently. Like I'm some prized possession of his.

 

“Is it cold in here? Does it bother you?” His hand moves up and slips into my hair, pushing it back with a slow drag. I feel my heart flutter, mouth parting open as I sink into the feeling.

 

“No,” I finally respond. There's so much to be said, but it feels like we're tiptoeing around it. A slow, languishing fight for affection from one another, and I don't quite know who's winning. “I'm rather comfortable.”

 

His head nods, my gentle grip falling out of his hair and settling onto his back. At a snail's pace, his hand slowly untangles from my hair and falls back to my face. As if I'd willed it to, his fingers rest onto my lips.

 

I risk a quick peck onto them, watching his cheeks flush at the motion. Yet, still, he's silent, keeping his fingers still.

 

I don't want to stop. I don't want to shut my eyes and rest, but as every second creeps on, so does my exhaustion. It isn't until my eyelids finally fall shut that I feel him scoot closer, arm draping around me.

 

He smells like cheap soap and chocolate milk. I wish I could smell him forever.

 

“You smell like cigarettes,” he tells me. His words burn like the guilt in my throat, still rough from the two I'd smoked earlier..

 

“Don't worry about it.”

 

A beat. Then, “I worry about you anyway.”

 

I don't know how to swallow that one.

 

Instead, I just keep my eyes shut, holding his still-linked hand tighter. “Don't worry about it now. We can talk about it tomorrow.”

 

He must be right in front of me. I can feel it--his slow exhale near my face. It's warm, and his forehead touches mine as he lowers it for a nod. “Sleep tight, Baz.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, every time they almost kiss: hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. wait.


	9. We're Tumblr-Official

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hm?” I hum at last, grinning smugly as I settle my mobile aside.
> 
> “The post?”
> 
> I turn my nose up a bit, shamelessly faking my innocence. “What post?”
> 
> -
> 
> Stepping lines, breaking barriers, and being dumb, emotional teens. What else do Simon and Baz do better?

**SIMON**

 

I wake up to the smell of coconuts and old cotton.

 

It drifts to me as I stir, feeling the chaotic mash of hair pressing to my face. It tickles, but I don't quite mind. Especially since it's Baz's.

 

He's still asleep, hand intertwined with mine as he breathes evenly. I feel it--the careful rise and fall of his body as he snores, snuggled up tightly to my body. He was right, he is cold.

 

Guilt tugs as my throat as I let myself back, watching the sunlight wash over him. It must be a cloudy day, given the heavy grey haze covering him. He's unmistakably exhausted, even in his sleep

 

In attempts to keep him resting, I move as slowly as possible while sitting up and twisting around to find where my mobile slid from my pocket.

 

I find it face up on the ground, thankfully unharmed. When I check it, though, I somewhat wish it was broken, so I wouldn't have to find an excuse.

 

It's Davy with a short, straightforward question.

 

**_When are you going to be back?_ **

 

My fingers rake through my hair, tugging slightly as I type out the answer I'd told him before I slipped out--Monday afternoon. Flat and simple.

 

Back hunching and spirit diving, I bow my head and and sigh inwardly. This was a mistake. He's going to be pissed.

 

After stealing a glance to Baz, I correct myself internally. It… wasn't really a mistake. He was never a mistake. It's everything else that makes me regret even being alive.

 

I sniffle softly, turning back towards the foot of the bed while my hands scrub over my face. It isn't long before I feel the brush of Baz's knee against my hip, sending me spinning back around to glance at him.

 

He's bleary. Sleep wrecked and exhausted from our night. I can't blame him. He's only been sleeping for maybe six hours, as compared to driving for the better half of his last 24. It doesn't wear too bad on him, though, because he gives me the smallest, reassuring smile while his hand reaches out to grab mine. The touch of his skin is gentle, and I melt into it the moment our hands are held together.

 

“What is it?” He whispers privately, eyes drifting to our locked hands. I can't lie to him.

 

“Davy.” I exhale again. “He's just… being Davy.”

 

His fingers dance around my knuckles, smoothing back my skin as he thinks. He's clearly an odd thinker--you can see it on him. He goes flat and narrowed in. Locked onto me.

 

I wish I could smile at him, but my face doesn't quite seem to work.

 

“Do you want to do something today?” He asks, palm turning and fingers moving so he can rub my arm. “We can do something. Anything you want. We could go to the Gastrell Museum…”

 

I don't know why, but that's what breaks me. His assurance, his gentle care and--fuck. God. Here it comes.

 

A pouring out of my tears, breath barely coming through. Sobs. Ongoing sobs breaking out of my lips as I hunch over to my own lap. Within moments, I feel weight around me, hugging me from the side. Baz drapes himself over, hands comfortingly rubbing my arm and back.

 

I lean towards him helplessly, quietly crying out an “I don't know.” Because that's it. I really don't know. I don't know what I want, I don't know what I need. There's so few things I genuinely do know. I know that I don't want to let go of Baz. I know I want to stay next to him. I know I feel safe here.

 

I know our time is limited. I know what it'll go back to. I know what's waiting for me.

 

He doesn't push for anything else, arms carefully around me as I cry myself dry.

 

This is it. My breaking point. The time when all these years have been too much, and I don't know if I can make it until my graduation keeping shit up the way I am. I'm built to crumble and break, and that's what I'm doing. I'm letting myself shatter.

 

By some relation, he's allowing me, too. And I'm thankful for that.

 

I needed a good breakdown.

 

When it's all said and done, when there's no tears left for me to cry and it's just him and I, I breathe out. It feels like new air--the stale smoke of the apartment, or the smog of the outside city. The uncleanliness settles into my lungs as if it were filtered air. It's refreshing.

 

I sniffle a few times more, pushing my own hair back as I take a look at his. It's hanging over his concerned eyes, so I take both hands and brush it back for him before settling my hands onto his cheeks.

 

“Simon…” he whispers, sounding on the verge of tears himself.

 

In that moment, I decide that I'm going to stop feeling sorry for myself, and I kiss him.

 

**BAZ**

 

All thoughts leave my brain the second Simon's lips meet mine.

 

He doesn't seem to stop and think, or really wait at all. It's a hard collision, and one that he breaks from after a few heartbeats.

 

To shut him up preemptively, I pull him back full force and kiss him back, briefly not caring how sloppy and inexperienced I am.

 

He doesn't seem to mind much either, given how quickly he starts tugging at my hair and urging me closer. We're both messy, uncoordinated, and just plain desperate.

 

He breaks briefly, chest pumping quickly as he turns down the sheets and presses closer to my side. It doesn't take another second before we fall back into it, fumbling around and trying to find our balance. It isn't until his tongue brushes the inside of my gums that I practically swoon against him, hands finally hands resting against his pecks and feeling his heart thunder inside of his chest. He _ is _ warm. So warm. Like a fire's built inside of him, making him burn from the inside out.

 

I want him to let me burn too.

 

We end up shifting a few times until finding a comfortable spot with me half on my back and him partially propped up on his side, leaning over me. His hair makes nice grips, and he must have some infatuation with my hips because he hasn't let go of them for the past 5 minutes.

 

He settled down more, too. The slow movements of his head, and the occasional awkward shifting of his legs makes me relax more into it. Our noses bump and I still really don't know how to move my head, but he's clearly not complaining, and I can't either. He's imperfect, and so am I.

 

It isn't until his stomach went off growling a few times that he pulls back once and for all, cheeks flushed as he focuses in on my face. He might not be a top student, but he has a knack for studying what I look like.

 

I'd be guilty of lying if I said I'm not trying to memorize him, too.

 

We don't say anything for a few good moment, hands finding hands again and holding each other close. He eventually moves, going to grab crisps from his backpack.

 

I let him go, falling back to his side when he sits up beside me. He feeds me a crisp or two, but I mostly reject his offers. I'm a bit too much in my mind to care for my body.

 

Eventually, he wipes himself off and brushes a hand under my chin, tilting it up. When he begins to lean, I meet him halfway, sweetly feeling his lips press against mine. He sinks back down to my level, laying close as his hands hover over my body briefly. It dawns on me quickly that he's not sure where to go from here. I'm not quite sure I do either.

 

At first, I just settle my arms on his biceps. Then it feels odd, so I move to his forearms. But, his hands lay open, afraid to go anywhere else. Hesitantly, I take his wrists, openly pressing his hands to my lower back. It doesn't take him long, from there, to move his mouth off mine, finally feeling around me with open-mouthed kisses.

 

Once he reaches my neck, my breath hitches with my spine. “Don't bruise me,” I remind, brain barely stringing together full sentences. “Takes a century to heal. Not worth the mark.”

 

He nods a little, hair tickling my chin as his teeth gently graze my skin. My breath comes out shaky, hands pushing pushing through his scalp and feeling every kink and curl slip through my fingertips. He lets out a satisfied hum, letting me hold him as I please.

 

As his lips brush against my collarbone, my mind goes fuzzy, then alert all at once. “I love you,” I say, clear as day. One of my hands is curled across the back of his neck, cradling the bottom of his head as the other one holds his curls.

 

At first, there's a pause. His lips hover over my skin, leaving it damp as he freezes in my arms. Frankly, I'm a little too afraid to let go. Afraid of him leaving. Afraid of how far he'd go. So, instead, I close my eyes and exhale, each second feeling like a stab in my chest.

 

“You're my bloody world,” he breathes at last, head tilting up. I keep frozen nervously, listening to his breathing. It comes out in almost a chuckle. “Jesus fucking  _ Christ _ , Baz. I love you so much.”

 

My eyes slowly push open, looking up at him glassy-eyed. “Do you really?”

 

He laughs for what feels like the first time, knuckles gently caressing down my cheek. “I mean it. I mean it so much.” His lips press carefully to mine. “You're the first thing I think of when I wake up, and the last thing I think of before I go to bed.”

 

“Fuck,” I whisper, feeling myself start to laugh along. It doesn't feel too happy, but more of a somber giggle. Like we're dealing with the end of the world, together. “ _ Shit _ .”

 

He laughs along with me, tucking his face back into my neck. “Shit,” he agrees, arms snugly wrapping around my waist.

 

As if by fate, our moment of snogging is brought to a soft pause. We relax against one another, occasionally pressing a lazy kiss to any exposed skin, but we mostly remain quiet and still. We're snuggled up, facing away from the weight of the crushing world.

 

After a little while, I reach for the remote and turn on the telly, hitting the Netflix button and turning on Gastrell. Simon smiles along as the theme plays, body keeping pressed up against me as he hums sweetly. I brush my fingers through his curls, focusing more on the vibrating of his chest against mine over the show itself. It's one of the few filler episodes, but I know it's one of his top two favorites.

 

Quietly, I snap a picture of his head with the show behind him, only his hair and a sliver of the skin of his face visible. Well, that and the bottom of his trackies, leg thrown over mine. You can clearly see my hand , and on screen is a conversing Huxley and Sam.

 

I kiss his hair as I post it, smiling fondly as he hums warmly and digs his nose deeper into my chest.

 

**surprise surprise, i do love @bi-sammy (in a** **_very_ ** **gay way)**

 

**#he's quite fit too #i mean it #well fit #it's frightfully offensive that he never posts pictures of himself #baz speaks**

 

I glance over, watching his mobile lights up. It's on silent, and out of sight for him, but it makes my heart flutter in ways unimaginable.

 

We get about halfway through before he sighs audibly, hovering over me long enough to lower himself in almost a push-up to press down a kiss. I grin helplessly into him, hand brushing the small sliver of his exposed hip.

 

He pulls off after a minute, pecking my cheek before going to raid the kitchen. It isn't long before he drags himself back, pouting. “Does your aunt not believe in food?”

 

“ _ No _ , but she does believe in not letting food rot or waste while she's gone.” I sit up, groaning softly as I rub my back. “I have some money, if you want to order in.”

 

“Really?”

 

I shrug, finding my wallet and handing him my card. “Don't worry about cost.”

 

He blinks, hesitantly taking my card and sitting beside me. “I… are you sure?”

 

“I mean, don't go off and buy a yacht, but you can order something from wherever. I don't care.” I reach hand reaches over, skating over his thigh. “I just want you to eat.”

 

I watch as he leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to my cheek. “You order, then,” he hums, pushing the card back into my hands. “I trust you more with local foods.”

 

I chuckle and peck him back, leaning against him as I dial. He finally checks his mobile, blinking at his screen before looking at me as his nose wrinkles. “You fucking…” he begins before I shush him, speaking on the phone and hanging up as soon as the order's confirmed.

 

“Hm?” I hum at last, grinning smugly as I settle my mobile aside.

 

“The post?”

 

I turn my nose up a bit, shamelessly faking my innocence. “What post?”

 

Thankfully, he smiles back, chasing me down for a brief kiss. I don't protest in the slightest, holding his face as I kiss him like he's the thing I cherish most in the world. Because he is. I've never held anything this sweet.

 

I rub his cheeks, kissing him over and over and over as he bursts into bubbly, soft laughter, spilling into the room.

 

“I love you.”

 

“I love you too.”

 

He pulls back, watching me with a grin as he rubs my cheek. “You're a sap.”

 

“No, I'm not.”

 

“Yes, you are,” he says giddily. “You try to be a cold arsehole online, but look at you! You're an absolute sap. Holy shit. You're so  _ brilliantly _ soft.”

 

I open my mouth, flapping it at him as I keep a sly grin. “Fuck you,” I whisper.

 

“Fuck me yourself, coward,” he laughs, pushing my hair back. Granted, this one makes me blink. “Kidding--I'm kidding. B-but one day, maybe. Just… not now. I'm happy with the snogging.”

 

Exhaling slowly, I nod, feeling down his side before settling my palm onto the dip of his hip. “Good. Waiting is good.”

 

We both nod, relaxing with each other as we cuddle. I turn back on the show, and he scrolls for a bit, commenting about how popular I am. “Did you see the comments?” He adds. “People were rooting for us. I like that. It's cute.”

 

I snort aloud, hand still traveling up and down as his shirt lifts, exposing just enough skin to rest onto. He raises his head, looking confused before I shrug. “Well they called it, didn't they? Way before I could've.”

 

He blinks at first, then breaks back into a grin. “I should've caught it then, too.”

 

“We were young and dumb.”

 

“It was six months ago!”

 

“Ah, the good old days…”

 

When he laughs again, I feel my smile stretch until it aches to keep it. I love that sound. In fact, I believe it's my new favorite sound in the world.

 

I listen as long as I can handle without snogging him, grinning against his mouth as he smiles onto mine. We practically laugh into one another, comfortable in the still-clumsiness of our kisses.

 

He breaks off once the buzzer sounds, practically shoving me off the bed in one quick nudge. I'm a bit dazed as I fix my clothes, cheeks flushed and--oh shit. I shit around, catching his eye as I blush harder. “Not a word,” I hiss, corner of my lips tugging as I slap a hand onto my wallet and run down with it.

 

It's an awkward encounter with the delivery bloke, but it's reality clear that he's bored and unphased, while I'm just some horny teen twisting his body at a near ‘S’ figure to hide my hips behind the door as I sigh off. Thankfully, I've mostly willed it away by the time I reach the flat.

 

Simon's head lifts, cheeks scrunched as he grins and reaches out.

 

“Is that for the food, or for me?”

 

“Both,” he hums cheerfully, reaching for the bag once I'm close enough. “But mostly the food.”

 

I find myself tutting softly, kissing his hair before going to grab silverware. “Oh you  _ bastard _ .”

 

“You love me though, don't you?”

 

“Sadly.”

 

He's wrinkling his nose at me as I sit, trying to hide his smile as he snags a fork from my hands. We sit in silence as we eat, turning up the episode and cuddling up tightly. He settles his head onto my shoulder, and I settle my head onto his. It's nearly picturesque, if it wasn't for the gory crime scene on screen or the looming sense of impending doom hanging over our heads.

 

By the time the sun's sinking, we're warmly pressed up to one another and watching the last episode of the first season. We've added to the post, and taken countless pictures of each other. By now, I've changed out of my clothes and into sweats and the cleanest tee I could find in my room before running out. He doesn't have much in his bag--a few shirts, some trousers, and another pair of shoes with various boxers and socks. When I asked, he just looked at me and said “I like having everything in one place in case I have to go.” It dawns on me that that's really all he has.

 

We travel into the kitchen as the sun sets, watching through the biggest windows in the flat. It paints him in a soft orange glow, and I kiss the blush that spreads over his face.

 

Once we fall into a light blue, Simon kisses my neck and says he's exhausted. I can't blame him--I am too. I'm overworked, but blissful.

 

In bed, we settle, sheets pulled to our chins as he trickles his hand up and down my arm. Eventually, I come out and say it.

 

“What would this make us?”

 

He stops for a moment, then keeps going. “Boyfriends?”

 

“Are… you okay with the distance?”

 

He shrugs, pressing his lips to mine. “We'll see how close I can be after I'm 18. I think we can manage a few months of texting until then, though.”

 

I grin against him, feeling his heartbeat against my hands.  “We did manage this far.”

 

He nods in response, eyes soft and heavily shadowed over the street lights. “Settled then? Boyfriends?”

 

“Boyfriends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all. i made a mobile hotspot just to post this--im dead serious but like hehe i changed next chapter a lot so if u like this, be prepared to cry ltr! (no break up, but just! ;) !)


	10. Then Let's Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You make me laugh. Nobody else can do that.”
> 
> -
> 
> Sunday settles in a soft grey, and Monday brings rainy skies and fears of leaving each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're reading this, you're probably thinking "woah wait, two updates in one day? am i losing it?" and the answer is nope! i am posting twice in one day!
> 
> if you're reading this and you're like "i just binge read this fic what do you mean one day", then you probably missed the first time i ever managed to post on a schedule and got it done. either way, enjoy this ending that genuinely made me cry while writing it.

**BAZ**

 

The next day isn't much of an adventurous day, either.

 

I wake up with both of our shirts off, and a clear hickey on his chest. It makes me smile, fingertip trailing over it as I admire my work. He laughed a good bit towards the end of last night, stroking my hair and calling me beautiful. I hope he does that again.

 

When he wakes up, he kisses my hair and does exactly that--he calls me beautiful.

 

We slept a good deal into the morning, so we just eat leftovers and stay intertwined in bed for a few more hours. I let him take a picture of our hands together, posting it on his blog as I call him ridiculous. It doesn't put any damper on his actions, and he just calls me a drama queen.

 

I don't think he smiles as much. I don't really smile too, so neither of us can complain about one another's somberness. Instead, we stay quiet, wrapped up around each other as the telly stays off. It's raining by early afternoon, and the storm just gets heavier throughout the day.

 

We snog a bit, but we have to stop when he tells me that he's getting that  anxious weight pressing on his chest again. I try to soothe him, but it isn't long before he starts crying, arm covering his face as he barely breathes right.

 

It's hard to help him relax when he's panicking. It's even harder when I know I can't stop the inevitable of tomorrow. I'm going to have to take him back, and then what?

 

His face tucks into my shoulder as he trembles, and I can do nothing but hold him and rest kisses onto his curls. He apologizes, repeating it over and over as I snuggle him close and tell him he's my world. It barely does anything, but I try nonetheless.

 

I love him nonetheless.

 

We order take out, and spoon sitting upright. He kisses my hands, and I kiss his neck. We're quiet, and I can tell he hurts. There's nothing I can do about it.

 

We nap through the afternoon, and we load back up the Volvo by midnight. He sleeps, I drive. By about 4, he wakes up for good, settling his hand onto my thigh as music drifts out of the radio.

 

“Are you driving back home?” He yawns, head turning to face me. I shake my head, hand dropping to hold his.

 

“Not until later tonight. I'll probably fuck around town for a couple hours, then leave later.” I trace along his palm. “Why, do you want me to stay for the day? I can get us dinner tonight before I leave.” He just nods at that, going quiet as I feel his eyes run over my face.

 

The radio crackles as the rain picks back up again, but it keeps a soft hum to it. The roads are relatively clear, and not many people are on the M1 in the early morning hours, so it's more intimate than urgent. Yet, still, the air of worry hangs over us. I still haven't worked out what will happen until graduation, and then his birthday.

 

I might just bring him to London. Help him set up, make everything comfortable. God knows father would be thrilled knowing I'm moving to the city before school.

 

I steal a glance at him and feel his hand squeeze around mine, his heavy lids drooping.

 

“Do you want to get breakfast before your classes start?” I ask, slowly bringing his hand up to my lips and ghosting them over his knuckles. He nods wordlessly, index finger running over my jaw.

 

We stop off in the town over, finding a nice little restaurant and sitting in the far back. The deep maroon booth is old, and the leather is squeaky, but Simon seems fixed on my hands and the buzzing glow of the light fixtures aren't terrible, so I suppose there's nothing really to complain about.

 

By the time we order and start eating, I can tell he's getting the onslaught of his anxiety building back up . 

 

At first, he waves it off. Says it's nothing, then says he's fine when he's asked. It isn't until he's staring out the window that he lets it out, tears starting to trickle down his face. I reach out, palm resting along his jaw as my thumb wipes them away. He turns his head into it. “I don't know if I can handle school today,” he mumbles, eyes falling shut.

 

I don't dare question him. “Okay,” I whisper. “That's okay. What do you want to do instead?”

 

He thinks for a minute, eyes barely staying back open as he looks over his plate. He takes a few more bites of his sausage, chewing slowly. “I think I know.”

 

Wordlessly, I nod and pull back, picking over my food. He finishes up quickly, and I manage half a meal, paying the tab. In the car, he's entirely quiet all but giving the directions. To my relief, he's still rubbing my thigh absentmindedly.

 

The place he had in mind just so happens to be an open park not too far off town. It's open and hilly, and still damp from the rain. He grabs my sleeve once I'm parked and he tugs at it, urging me out. He returns to my side when I stand, lacing his fingers between mine as we make our way down the tall grass.

 

He finds a spot down a hill or two--a large tree overlooking the moor. We lean against it, his arm around mine as he settles against me. I have so mant words filling around my mind, but he just presses his nose into my shoulder and lets out a quiet sigh and it quiets me. I know it means something, just what it is is up to question.

 

After what feels like an hour, he picks up his head and clears his throat. “I used to run here, years ago. Take my bike and hide. Nobody can get me here--nobody.”

 

I keep my head forward, swallowing hard. “Then why bring me?”

 

“Because you're not here to find me.”

 

I look at him--really look at him--and wonder if he'd brought me here because I found him already.

 

Impulsively, I reach out, pushing his hair back and pressing a slow kiss to his forehead. “Just because you never told anyone you're hiding doesn't mean nobody wants to know where you are.”

 

He exhales against me as I watch the slow-starting rain begin to pick back up. The tree shields us a bit, for now.

 

“Simon…” I start, but he cuts me off with a squeeze of my arm.

 

“I'll tell Penn I'm okay. I really will.” He pauses himself, watching the rain too before dropping his voice to a near-whisper. “I'm sorry I'm stupid.”

 

“You're not stupid,” I whisper back, gaze following the bobbing of his neck as he swallows back a cry. “You're a bit thick, yeah, but don't tell me you're dumb.”

 

“Why is that?”

 

“You make me laugh. Nobody else can do that.”

 

He barely smiles, but it starts. “I…”

 

“You make me smile. You care--you care more than anyone else seems to. My step-mum finds me drunk and she tuts, my father catches me smoking and just complains about my aunt. My mates try to help, but they don't try to understand.” I cup his face, feeling the rain drops break through the leaves and onto our heads. “You're incredibly funny and  _ perfectly _ dim. You were too dumb to tell me off, and I couldn't be more grateful that you're a clueless mess.”

 

He looks up at me, and I can't tell if it's the rain or his tears wetting his face. It doesn't matter, because I kiss the wet off his cheeks anyway. I feel him scrunch, face wrinkling as he sniffles, then grabs me back and kisses me, holding me tightly in place. It's a hard mess of a kiss. The longer we stand, the wetter we get. It isn't long before he's shivering yet still clutching desperately to my shirt.

 

I tug at his wet top and tell him we should run back to the car. He nods, dragging me off and practically pushing me into the back seat as waves of rain beat down onto us.

 

“Strip,” he tells me (or more commands me). It leaves me stunned.

 

“I--what?”

 

He blinks, then his eyes go wide. “I meant, so that you're not in wet clothes. I-I don't want you getting sick,” he mumbles, starting to take off his shirt. I'm a bit dumbfounded still, but I manage the coherent thought of  _ yes, he is right _ as I begin to unbutton.

 

We both grab clothes out of our bags, pulling them on in the most awkward, hitting-our-heads-here and bumping-into-this-and-that dance (dare I call it that). Once we're done, though, he hugs me. Tosses his arms around me, and pulls me into his tight embrace, never to let go.

 

I relax into him, stroking his damp hair as we pant into the small space. I'm guilty of clinging to him. He's still warm, like an electric heater kept running, and I couldn't be more grateful.

 

I lay us back, using my duffel bag as a pillow as he settles on top of me. For a while, we stay silent, watching the rain out my fogging windows. He reaches up above me, tracing a tiny heart onto it. It's stupid and small, but it makes me smile until my face hurts.

 

My hands slip under the back of his shirt, settling onto his skin as I think over where we are, what we're doing. Who are we even?

 

I kiss his hair then inhale. He still smells like drugstore soaps. I want him to shower with me and show me how he works them into his hair and skin.

 

I want to be that close to him. I want to be so stupid that we make that our lives, wrapped up one another. 

 

“Y'know what's funny?” He says eventually, staring at the ceiling as heavy drops thunder on top. It drops me from my trace, blinking back into reality. He doesn't see me watching him, following the slight upturn of his nose as he holds himself above me. “I haven't been on my mobile much all weekend. That's really bloody rare.” His head drops down onto the bag as he scoots beside me, skin nearly brushing mine. We're a bit awkwardly set, and I'm nearly half off the seat, but I don't mind. We're chest to chest now, and feeling his heart is better than feeling comfortable.

 

“I haven't either,” I murmur, scooting just the bit closer as I brush my nose against his. I don't need the comfort of anything but him.

 

His hand rests upon my cheek, slowly finding its way into my hair as he kisses the corner of my lips. A pause, then another kiss, now fully to my mouth.

 

My chest flutters as if it were our first time kissing, and still aching to the same tune of relief. He kisses me slower than usual, hand cradling my skull preciously. I practically fall into him, melting into his grip as I relish languidly in the moment.

 

The day wears heavy, like a blanket over me, but he's so warm and his touch is so soft that it doesn't matter how weary I am from the weekend--I kiss him back with all the love I have to share.

 

The rain doesn't let up, and we don't let go, not even as the sky drops heavier into a dark grey. I don't move to start the car, and he doesn't stop holding me. We do stop kissing, but only because we're tired and happy to hold one another instead.

 

His attention turns back to the window, asking me a quiet question.

 

“Have you ever thought of running away?”

 

I follow his gaze, hand holding his as I stare openly onto the streaking lines of rain. “On occasion, I suppose. There's always that fantasy of freedom, but I've always been afraid of being alone.”

 

“You don't have to be,” he whispers, short and sweet. I look back to him, puzzled as he continues. “I want to run. As far as we can, as fast as we can. I want to stop feeling sorry for myself. I want to be free.”

 

I study him, thinking over everything I've got left waiting for me at home. Nothing's as important as he is. “Then let's go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here's where i leave my thoughts of post-fic: they do end up "running away", but when fall comes back around, they settle back in london. simon keeps in touch with penny (because baz forces him to, which later makes simon guilty because he knows he should've told her from the beginning, but they talk it through and they make it okay). baz and penny meet, and end up hitting it off pretty quickly. the three of them get a flat together, and four years down the line, simon and baz get engaged inside the Gastrell museum. baz is the one who proposes, and simon, of course, says yes.


End file.
